








































I 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 





















« 





4 ( 

i 4 





$ 


I 




i 








% 


4 










\J /uy-iru^o^ 

/??Z^ f-^ytu-c^l^ ><i'2^/r<-'^ 

-/'J't-^' y?'/U''t^y?’l^^-C^-^ jOL.'n..^ £'€^'XC.^?C> 

'9ZJ^ ytCccyux 

yx.yr^ 

^ cita^ ^C^yi^.<A.. 

j ^f^ y>2y^r^ y^iC^4yn^ PTZyy^ /TVCriZ 

yf!iCcL^'> ^ /T/^^y^ 

ydy(2.yu^ yCJ^ ^'tiTZC^^^^L^ 

• ,J /tir-'7r7^^y^^ Ay:i^^Zi(jt^ /TUT^. J 

J ytonx^ y^t^ii^!^ 

y^Xi’tyyV <^<ly^ Ayfty^ 

''^t^.y^y^ ;J^t^ yr*^ yUT-. 42«/^ J ^QAn 

m4^ .d^y^^tiyn . c/^yx4^ J yU^^Tfc^ 

y^Ci^ y^^l3lt\. -lyn. yrnyyy' 

^/iyOC^. ^ ylArfl^^ 

Oy^n^ 


V 





TROTTY’S WEDDING TOUR, 


AND 


STORY-BOOK. 




/ 


ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. ■ 


JJSitlj lJumttoua iEIlusttations. 



BOSTON: 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. 
2Cl)e prtstf, Cambriogf. 




H 



< C ' I 
< « 

< ( ( c 


THE LIBRARy''(5f 

. pO|SGRESS, ^ 
Tv.^ 6w'£a ‘ReceivEix 

‘AUd.'‘‘9. 'I90l': 

Copyright entry 

2 ^, f9of 


^CLA? 


LASS ^XXa N*. 
COPY 8, 


COPYRIGHT, 1873, JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO, 
COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


The stories ‘‘One Way to get an Education” and 
“ Baby-Birds ” are reprinted from “ The Youth’s Com- 
panion.” 


0 


i'V- 








CONTENTS 


Chapter Page 

I. The Divorce • . - . ^ .11 

11. An Interruption . . - . J . . . . 19 

III. The Duel 21 

IV. The Consequences 25 

V. Max’s Logic 27 

VI. Lill’s Bright Idea 36 

VI 1. Another Story ,50 

VIII. The Third Story; How June found Massa Linkum. 70 

IX. A Fish Story 87 

X. Ruby’s Visitor 96 

XL Rye’s Fritters ,.110 

XII. Just like Aunt Banger 122 

XIII. The Day of Judgment . ; 129 

XIV. More Ways than One 141 


CONTENTS. 


viii 

XV. The Chapter that Trotty did n’t print . . . 153 

XVI. A VERY “Common” Story 162 

XVII. The Baby’s Day 173 

XVIII. The Calico Paper . . . ' . . . . 181 

XIX. Deb 198 

XX. The Last Story 209 


XXI. The Wedding Tour 


222 


TROTTY’S WEDDING TOUR. 



TROTTY’S WEDDING TOUR. 


CHAPTER I. 


THE DIVORCE. 

ROTTY had been married before. 
There is no denying that. 
Whatever may be said — and 
a great deal may be said — 
about First Love, and Eternal 
Fidelity, the fact remains : Trotty 
had been married before. 

To those who have been per- 
sonally interested hitherto in the 
memoirs of this remarkable 
young gentleman, it will be only 
necessary to refer in the scantiest way to his domestic his- 
tory. His early and unfortunate attachment to that esti- 
mable young lady. Miss Nita Thayer, and its abrupt and 
blighting termination, can but be fresh in the reader’s rec- 
ollection. 



12 


tiiotty’s wedding tour. 


It was not until Miss Merle Higgins came into Fourth 
Reader that he went to Indiana to apply for a divorce. 

Miss Merle Higgins was the belle of the School at the time 
when she honored Fourth Reader by her presence. At least, 
so Nate said, and one or two of the other boys ; and Trotty 
supposed they ought to know, though it was something of a 
perplexity to him in his thoughtful moods, there being one in 
the belfry already ; though, to be sure, that was cracked. 

Miss Merle Higgins’s mother did up Miss Merle’s hair in 
papers over night, and Miss Merle’s hair — unless it was 
damp weather — hung about her eyes and her little (pug) 
nose in so many curls that she looked like a basket of beau- 
tiful, fresh shavings. Miss Merle wpre a blue dress, and a 
pink overskii’t. She had a necklace of large pearl beads, 
and a brass ring. She wrote little notes to the boys on pink 
paper. Besides these irresistible attractions, she kept a bottle 
of Lubin’s perfumery in her desk, and her father kept an 
oyster-saloon and candy-shop. 

At this time Mrs. Nita was recovering from the chicken- 
pox, and wearing out her old brown gingham. 

It was on a Wednesday morning that Miss Merle came 
into Fourth, and that she lost her book, and Trotty stood by 
her and lent her his. 

It was on Saturday that he proposed to her. 

They were eating a corn-ball at recess. Trotty took one 
bite, and Merle took one. They sat on the little wood-pile in 
the sun. 


THE DIVORCE. 


13 


‘‘ I should link,” said Trotty (big as Trotty is now, he is 
weak on his ‘‘ th’s ” yet), ‘‘ I should fink you ’d make a very 
nice wife if a man wanted any more. But I liked the mush- 
melons you brought yesterday, better.” 

I ’ll bring some fig-paste to-morrow,” said Merle. 

I like lozumges too,” said Trotty. “ I don’t know but I ’d 
marry you if it was n’t for Nita.” 

‘‘ I ’m engaged, I thank you,” said the young lady, finishing 
the corn-ball, and serenely • sucking her brass-ringed fingers, 
while her little ankle-ties swung tormentingly and carelessly 
to and fro against the wood-pile. 

‘‘ I ’ll fight him ! ” cried Trotty. If you ’d only had an- 
other corn-ball I ’d go and fight him now.” 

“ Do you s’pose I ’d be so mean as tell of him ? ” said the 
lady, I would n’t have him get hurt on my account. If 
you ’d got a divorce I don’t know but I ’d marry you any 
way. He need n’t know. He ’s sick at home with the 
mumps.” 

“ Well, I will,” said Trotty, “ if you ’ll get a jelly roll-over 
for the wedding dinner.” 

If I can’t, I ’ll get half a stick of nut-candy,” said Miss 
Merle. And so it was settled. 

And so on Monday Trotty went to Indiana for his di- 
vorce. It may not be generally known that Indiana is 
bounded on the north by the School-yard fence, on the east 
by Bogg’s Me’sh,” on the south by Deacon Trimner’s pas- 
tures, and on the west by Nate’s house. Indiana, in fact, is a 


14 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


long, loose, shaky stone wall which the cows can jump over 
when they like, and from which the stones roll on little boys’ 
and girls’ ankles in climbing over if they don’t look out. 

Nita came; and Nate. Merle said that Nate married 
them, and so he must unmarry them. Nita and Nate and 
Trotty sat down on the shaky wall. Miss Merle hid behind 
it, and kept jumping up to see, and scraping her little short 
nose very hard on the edge of the wall, and then flopping 
down with a great noise to hide again. She was not sup- 
posed to be there at all, — it not being thought quite proper ; 
and though Mrs. Nita made faces at her twice, and the Rev- 
erend Mr. Nate turned his clerical eyes with a broad and 
reproving stare upon her whenever she moved, and Trotty 
kissed his hand to her in the face of the public and without a 
blush, the supposition answered all conventional and legal 
purposes quite as well as the fact, — which is the case with a 
great many suppositions in more mature society. 

Well, and so Nita and Nate and Trotty sat down — with 
some care, and holding on very tight — upon Indiana, and the 
services began. It was Merle who wanted it called “ ser- 
vices.” The clergyman thought ceremony a more suitable 
word ; perhaps because the occasion seemed to the professional 
mind to be lacking in the solemnity of either a first marriage 
or a funeral. The widow — if that is the proper thing to call 
her — preferred “ exercises,” and Trotty himself inclined to 
speak of the ‘‘ performances ” ; but Merle carried the day, 
and the services began as follows : — 


THE DIVORCE. 


15 


The Clergyman. “You Mrs. Nita, just listen to me. 
Ma’am (if you push me off this wall I won’t play!), hold 
your head up, ma’am, and take your bonnet off.” 

Mrs. Nita. “ Yes, sir, if you ’ll untie the strings ; they ’re 
knotted up.” 

Clergyman (^coug'hing') . “ As long as it is n’t a weddings 
I don’t know but you may as well keep it on. I propose, 
ma’am, — I propose to ask you to-day if you wish and re- 
quest to be divorced from your husband, Mr. Trotty.” 

Mrs. Nita. “ No, sir. I never did. But Merle put him 
up to it, and so he says I must.” 

The Bridegroom (h lushing''). “0, what a story! You 
said you ’d just as liefs if I gave you five cents to-morrow ; 
so I gave you four to-day. Besides., you ’ve got my note for 
the other, at ten per cent interest. So there now ! ” 

Clergyman (^severely). “ Mr. Trotty, sir, you insult the 
lady ! Sir, you deserted her ! You ran away from this lady 
on your first wedding journey, sir ! Let me hear you say 
you did n’t ! 

Mrs. Nita (with some spirit). “ His mamma knows he 
did ! She wrung me out and set me up to the kitchen fire. 
I would n’t have another sucher husband ! I ’d rather be a 
nold maid or else I ’d marry Mr. Boggs or Crazy Jim. Be- 
sides, if my father kept a candy-shop I would n’t marry other 
folkses husbands ! I ’d get a fresh one of my own, or I ’d go 
without ! ” 

At this point Miss Merle appeared in full-length photograph 


16 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


above the top of Indiana, and manifested such an active 
desire to throw some very solid portions of that admirable 
State in the direction of Mrs. Nita, that the minister began 
hastily and authoritatively to conclude the scene. 

“ Mr. Trotty, sir, you are a divorced husband ! ” (very 
impressively). ‘‘Mrs. Nita, marm, you are a divorced 
widower, if you please. You can both two of you marry 
again.” 

“ Hold on ! ” cried the bridegroom, “ I never said she 
might ! ” 

“ Can marry again,” repeated the clergyman, sternly, “ as 
many times as the law permits ; especiallary the lady, sir ! 
If you ’ll wait till I ’ve got down without this stone’s coming 
on top of me, I ’ll dismiss you, ladies and gentlemen, and go 
to the deacon’s, myself. I ’ve got some business there, in 
the licorice department. Good morning, sir ! ” 

So Trotty and Nita and Nate got down from the stone 
wall (with some difficulty) , and the minister walked thought- 
fully away. 

“ You ’d better go too,” said the bridegroom ; for Miss 
Higgins had boldly climbed over the wall by this time, and 
was twisting her curls over a slate-pencil with a killing air. 

“ I was n’t arsed ! ” said the poor little widow ; but she, 
too, walked mournfully away. 

Trotty went and sat down by Merle upon a stone. 

“ How do fink you feel now ? ” asked he. 

“ I should have liked it better if Nita could n’t have mar- 


THE DIVORCE. 


17 


ried again,” said the lady ; ‘‘ I did n’t promise Nate a banana 
with one end good, to be treated so.” 

“ I s’pose,” said Trotty, serenely ignoring this feminine 
annoyance, “ I s’pose we might as well do it to-day as any 
time.” 

I ’d rather it would be to-morrow,” said the lady, de- 
cidedly. “ My French print is in the wash, and won’t be 
ironed till morning. I would n’t marry any body in this old 
delaine.” 

“ I fought it was a pretty dress,” said Trotty, argumenta- 
tively. 

‘‘ What do you know about dresses ? ” said the bride-elect, 
with emphasis. 

There was no reply to this crushing argument. What did 
he ? Trotty sighed, and submitted perforce to Fate. 

Anyways,” said he, “ I ’d like the jelly roll-over to-day. 

■ Then I would n’t care so much ! ” 

‘‘We must go on a wedding tour,” said Merle. 

“ 0 yes,” said Trotty. “ I ’d like to go down the Me’sh 
on a raft ; or hire Mr. Bogg’s old pony, — I can drive, — 
and ride round awhile.” 

“ I ’d rather go to Lawrence in the cars,” said the lady, 
coolly. “We might go over on the noon train, and do a little 
shopping, and have an ice-cream. My mother would n’t 
care.” 

“ I ’ll ax my mother,” said the young bridegroom, plain- 
tively, somewhat abashed by this immense proposal. “ She 


18 


tuotty's wedding tour. 


never did let me go to Lawrence alone. I s’pose you ’d pay 
your own fare, would n’t you ? My ’lowance is n’t very large 
this year.” 

“ What ’s that ? ” asked Merle, suddenly. 

“ What ’s what ? ” 

“ That ! There ! Behind the wall ! 0, I heard a grovel- 

ing I ” 

Trotty listened. He heard it too. 

“ It ’s a bear ! ” screamed Miss Higgins. ‘‘ It ’s a bear, a 
bear ! ” 

Don’t you be scared,” said Trotty, loftily ; ‘‘ I ’ll frow 
a stone at him, and then I ’ll sit on him, till he ’s lost his 
breath, he ’d better know ! ” 

The growling recommenced, — grew loud, — grew louder, 
— grew terrible. 


AN INTERRUPTION. 


19 


CHAPTER TI. 


AN INTERRUPTION. 



T came from beyond Indiana, in the direction of Boggs’s 


Me’sh. 


It was a terrible growling. 

‘‘ Why don’t you jump over and see what it is ? ” de- 
manded Merle, between her little shrieks. 

‘‘ I don’t fink I ’d better leave you ! ” said Trotty, a little 
white about the lips. I ’ll wait till he comes a little nearer, 
and then I ’ll jab him, sir ! ” 

You will, will you ! 0, you will, won’t you ? Hi then ! 

Now ! Let ’s see you do it ! 0 my ! I stump you ! 0, you 
darse rCt ! 0, you will, will you ? 

Like a clap of thunder to Trotty ’s terrified ears, these 
awful words burst from the mouth of the ‘‘ bear,” and that 
savage animal himself appeared in full length, and, leisurely 
leaping the wall, stood glaring at Trotty. 

He was a little undersized for a bear, being about three 
feet and a half in length, and very thin in his muscular 
development, looking, indeed, very much like a bear recov- 
ering from the mumps or some similar epidemic common to 
those delicate animals at an early age. He wore a gray sack 
with a leather belt to it, and long gray plaid trousers, as 


20 trotty’s wedding tour. 

well as a soldier cap with a band of gold braid about it. 
Altogether, for a bear, he showed a good deal of appreciation 
of the customs of civilized life, as was further exhibited by 
his squaring two (rather dirty) fists at Trotty, with a dread- 
ful smile, and threateningly demanding : — 

“ What business has one man got to make up to another 
man’s girl ? ” 

At this. Miss Higgins sat down and chewed her hat-strings 
in apparent despair. 

“ 0,” said she, ‘‘ it is, it is I ” 

‘‘ Is what ? ” asked Trotty, fiercely. 

“ It ’s Pompey Merino ! It is, it is ! ” 

‘‘ Who ’s Pompey Merino ? ” asked Trotty. I never saw 
him before.” 

‘‘ 0, he ’s the butcher’s son,” said Merle, biting her own 
curls in considerable absence of mind. “ 0, I never meant 
to make any trouble. His father used to let us go to ride in 
the cart. What on earth shall I do ? It ’5 the gentleman 1 
vms engaged to I 

An awful silence followed this announcement. 

Pompey Merino looked at Trotty. Trotty looked at Pom- 
pey Merino. 

‘‘ Anyway,” said Trotty, confidently, ‘‘ we ’re going to be 
married to-morrow. You ’d better go home, sir, the way you 
came ! ” 

“ Sir,” said Pompey Merino, “ I ’ll fight you first, if you ’ve 
no objections.” 


THE DUEL. 


21 


CHAPTER III. 


THE DUEL. 



ROTTY winked for a minute, very hard and fast. He 


1 looked Pompey Merino over from head to foot. Pom- 
pey was at least a half an inch the taller, and his pants were 


long. 


“ I have n’t got a pistol,” said Trotty. ‘‘ I ’ve lost the cork 
out of mine ; and my pop-gTin does n’t pop very well. I 
tried it with some smashed potatoes yesterday.” 

“ You ’re a cow — ard ! ” said Pompey, turning away. 

I ’ll punch you ! ” said Trotty, growing hot. 

“ Well then ! ” said Pompey, “ fists, then. I challenge 
you, sir, to fists ! ” Now, Trotty had two very tough little 
browned and hacked and muddy fists of his own, and he 
doubled them up with zest ; he felt the ugly, fighting feeling 
come out all over him ; he felt like a little dog when another 
little dog snaps at him. He looked something like one too, for 
his mouth was open, and his eyes flashed, and it seemed al- 
most as if he pricked his ears up under his soft, spaniel-like 
hair. It is so much more dog-like than boy-like after all to 
fight ! 

‘‘ Fists, sir,” said Pompey ; ‘‘on top of the wall, if you 
please. Whichever man knocks the other man off Indiana 
first shall get her, sir ! ” 


22 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


0, tlie stones will roll on you ! ” cried Merle, half ready 
to cry when she saw the two boys climb upon the crazy wall, 
looking so doggish and so ugly, — and yet half pleased and 
vain too in her silly little heart at being the object of so 
much excitement. 



But the boys did not pay the least attention to her, now. 
In fact they had forgotten her altogether. Trotty concen- 
trated all his energies on balancing a rather slippery stone 
upon which he had perched himself. Pompey fixed his eyes 
upon a button on Trotty’s sack which he meant to hit. 


THE DUEL. 


23 


One — two — three — noio I ” shouted Pompey, and they 
went at it. 

It was all over in a minute. How it happened exactly, no- 
body could tell. Whether Trotty tripped Pompey off his 
feet, or Pompey hit Trotty in the jacket, was an unsolved 
mystery. Whether the challenger had beaten, or tlie chal- 
lenged, was a matter of very little consequence. 

Treacherous Indiana had yielded to their weight ; they 
had slipped, struggled, and fallen, together, all in a moment’s 
time. Miss Merle, fairly forgetting for once that she did her 
hair in curl-papers and could number more “ engagements ” 
than any other girl in school, screamed with terror when 
both the hoys disappeared from her view upon the other side of 
the rolling wall, which, like Jill in the story, came tumbling 
after,” at a rapid and a fearful rate. 

She did not dare to look over. She only sat still and 
cried. After what seemed to her a long, long time, Pompey 
Merino crawled out from the ruins and gazed ruefully at a 
scratch or two on his fingers, and a great many splashes of 
swamp-mud on his long pants. He did not seem to be much 
hurt, and he did not seem to care in the least whether she 
married another boy or not. He said, crossly, that he wished 
they ’d put it off till snowballs, it was so muddy, and that he 
should think Trotty would rather get up. 

But Trotty could n’t get up. In the ruins of Indiana he 
lay groaning, with a dreadful sound. 

His leg, he said, was broken. And indeed an ugly great 


24 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


stone lay right across his little balmoral stocking and but- 
toned boot, and nearly up to the knee where the little full 
trousers stopped, providing him, you see, with a very good 
reason for lying still in the Indiana mud ; and me with a 
moral for this chapter ; namely : — When your pants are 
short, never fight a boy in long. 


THE CONSEQUENCES. 


25 


CHAPTER lY. 


THE CONSEQUENCES. 



ILL was called out of school. Then his mother was 


1 J called from home. Then the Doctor was called out of 
office hours,” where he sat, putting up little white sugar- 
plums for a dozen people. He tipped over his pellet-bottles, 
told the dozen patients that if they were in a hurry they 
might go to old Dr. Castoroil, and fairly ran to Indiana — 
and he was a stout man too. But he was very fond of 
Trotty. Almost all stout people were. 

Now, nobody had thought of such a thing as rolling the 
stone off Trotty, till the doctor came. His mother might 
have, but she had n’t got there. Lill had devoted herself in 
a general way to getting Trotty’ s head upon her lap, and 
Merle, in the incoherence of her grief, had actually sat down 
upon that very stone to cry ! 

So it was Dr. Bryonia, like tlie angel at the Sepulchre 
(Trotty thought of that), who rolled away the cruel, crushing 
rock, and took the little fellow gently up. 

Trotty screamed a dreadful scream at the tender motion. 
It seemed to him as if he should scream himself to death, it 
hurt him so. 


‘‘ Is it broken ? ” 
Is \t broken ? ” 


2 


26 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


‘‘ 0, is it broken ? ” 

Everybody spoke at once and bothered the doctor, so none 
of them got an answer for their pains. The doctor said : — 
“ We ’ll take him home. I don’t want anybody but his 
mother round.” 

So they carried the poor little duellist home. It was a sad 
procession. Lill followed crying, at a doubtful distance. 
She would n’t speak to Merle, who went a little way and 
stopped. Pompey Merino hid behind the ruins of Indiana, 
and dared not show his muddy face. 

And so the doctor poked and pushed and probed and 
washed and sewed and bandaged, — all as gently as gentle 
could be, to be sure, but that did n’t seem to make so much 
difference then, — and Trotty cried and sobbed and wished 
he ’d never been divorced, and wished he ’d never fought a 
duel, and wished he ’d never been married at all, and at last 
wished nothing whatsoever, for they put a great sponge to 
his face, and he went away (so it seemed) at once into a 
pleasant place where all the furniture was carved out of jelly 
roll-overs and all the people went on wedding journeys every 
other day. 

And so, by and by. Doctor Bryonia went back to the dozen 
patients (who had all waited but one, and he died the next 
week), and people shut the doors softly all over the house, and 
Lill went about with her handkerchief at her eyes, and Nita 
and Nate came over and went to the back door to find out what 
had happened. Somebody had told them that Trotty was 
dead. 


max’s logic. 


27 


CHAPTER V. 
max’s logic. 

NO,” said Lill, ‘‘ he is n’t dead.” 

\_/ ‘‘ Is his leg broken ? ” asked Nate. 

‘‘ No,” said Lill. She felt how important a thing it was 
that Trotty should be so sick, and did not incline to satisfy 
people’s curiosity all at once. 

“ Is his other leg broken ? ” asked Nita, after a thoughtful 
silence. 

No,” said Lill, “ but it ’s such a smash I ” 

0 dear, dear ! ” said poor little Nita. She felt so sorry ! 
She did n’t remember Merle and the divorce at all. It seemed 
so dreadful to play with a boy all your life and then find him 
smashed one day ! It was like hearing the newspapers read 
or going over to the railroad accident at the junction. 

“ They sewed it up ! ” pursued Lill, making the most of 
the occasion, “ and banged and hurt him so ! And he took 
ether too ! ” 

Nita and Nate had never known anybody before who took 
ether. They felt overawed. They wondered if Trotty 
would n’t feel big ” when he got over it, and went meekly 
away. 

Poor little Trotty 1 It was a long time before lie felt like 


28 


TROTTY S WEDDING TOUR. 


feeling big ” about anything. His leg was badly crushed, 
and he lay in bed, — it seemed to him as if he lay in bed as 
long as all his life had been outside of bed before. 

At first he was very still, and weak, and patient. Nobody 
was allowed to come in but his mother and Lill and the new 
girl, who wore a white apron, and made up his bed, and sang 
a funny little Irish song that he liked. 

But by and by he began to be better. 

“ He ’s as cross as a bear,” said Lill one day when the 
doctor was there. 

Glad of it,” said Dr. Bryonia. “ Good sign ! The crosser 
the better ! Boys are always cross when they are getting 
better.” 

‘‘ Are n’t girls cross too ? ” asked Lill. 

0, girls I ” said the doctor, ‘‘ why, girls ought not to be 
cross at all ! ” 

Lill did n’t say anything. She thought this was very pe- 
culiar in the doctor. But then, he was only a man. 

However that might be, Trotty grew better and crosser, 
and crosser and better, very fast. 

What should they do with him ? They had read to him, 
they had sung to him, they had talked to him. They cut him 
paper soldiers. They made him paper money. They bought 
him a new stamp-book. They invented unheard-of stamps 
(such as the thirty-cent Dreamland, and a Fairyland penny- 
currency, and a fine newspaper-imprint direct from the 
Postmaster-General of the moon). They tortured tlieir con- 


MAXS LOGIC. 


29 


sciences, too, in the formation of counterfeit Patagonias, and 
other rarities. Lill played jack-straws with him. She played 
checkers. She played “ everlasting.” She let him beat at 
Busby ” all the time. When he was able to be dressed and 



to sit in an easy-chair with his foot on an ottoman, she 
brought in somebody to help her once a day. Nate came 
pretty often, — he was n’t so still as a girl. Forgiving little 
Nita came a great deal and softly played about and pleased 
him. 


30 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


At last, one day, came Merle herself. 

“ I axpected you before,” said Trotty, reproachfully: Merle 
said she had been very busy, and her mother would n’t let 
her come. Trotty did n’t know, exactly, whether he believed 
that or not, but he said nothing. 

Merle looked very pretty that day. Slie liad on a new 
Scotch-plaid dress. 

“ We might get married, after all,” said Trotty. Merle 
said she did n’t care, and so Nate came up and married tliem. 
He stood on two crickets, and wore one of Lill’s dresses for a 
clerical gown. After the ceremony, they had weak lemonade 
and some sponge-drops, that were left over from Trotty’s 
dinner. 

‘‘ When I get well, we ’ll go on our journey,” said Trotty. 

Time enough for that,” said Merle. She did n’t seem to 
care much. She got vexed, too, because she was beaten at 
dominoes afterwards, and went home. If I must tell tlie 
truth, Trotty did n’t much care. She rustled about the room 
and tired him. 

But wliat should they do with him ? The better he grew, 
the more of a Chinese puzzle it became, to find out. When 
he was well enough to walk about on one foot and a crutch, 
it was fairly distracting ; he was in such a hurry to get 
well and out to play, and in so much danger of being in 
too great a hurry, and so of not getting out till nobody knew 
when. 

‘‘ Why, I ’ll amuse him,” said Max, one day, when his 


MAX S LOGIC. 


31 


mother, grandmothers, Lill, Nita, and the new girl had each 
and all retired exhausted from the field. ‘‘ You women don’t 
know how to manage. It ’s easy enough ! ” 

So Max took his books into Trotty’s room and sat down 
with a hopeful but determined expression. 

‘‘ Now Trotty ! ” said he, “ I ’ve come to stay with you, 
and I want you to have a nice time and be a good boy. I ’ve 
got to read, you know, but I ’ll sit here, and I want you to 
amuse yourseH.” 

“ 0 yes,” said Trotty, readily ; “ I ’ll be good if I have ten 
cents — in pennies — to play top on the table.” 

Max produced the ten cents ; that was easy enough. Lill 
did not have ten cents, to be sure, to give away for the ask- 
ing. But Max only thought : It never occurs to a woman 
to bvy a job done. I ’ve fixed him this time, I fancy.” 

Max began to read : — 

‘‘ From this it appears, that, though the difference of rea- 
soning in the several qualities of comprehension and exten- 
sion obtains in — ” 

‘‘ Max ! ” said Trotty, placidly, my penny has rolled all 
around ve room.” Max picked up the penny and began 
again : — 

‘‘ Obtains in disjunctive, as in all other syllogisms, it does 
not, in the — ” 

“ Max ! ” again, sweetly, “ I wished I had a drink of 
water.” 

Max got the drink of water, and tried once more : — 


32 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


‘‘ Does not — disjunctive Trotty — in the ten cents — 
syllogism — determine the — drink of water — 

‘‘ 0 Max ! don’t you wished you were a minister, and had 
gone into pasturage for a living ? ” 

“ Trotty, I gave you something to do. I can’t talk to you, 
besides.” 

“ 0, can’t you ? ” said Trotty, looking surprised. ‘‘ Why, 
Lill can.” 

Max looked severe, but made no reply. 

“ 0, see here ! Max ! ” suddenly, from the easy-chair. 
‘‘Wouldn’t you rather be a doctor? I would. Mamma’s 
got a doctor’s book in the library. I read it sometimes. It ’s 
called “ Illustrated Hydrophobia : in four quarts.” 

(Max looked it up afterwards, when his system had re- 
covered from the shock. It was “ Illustrated Hydropathy : 
in four parts.”) 

“ Trotty,” said Max, somewhat rapidly, “ shall I get you 
the dominoes ? ” ^ . 

“ 0 no, thank you ; dominoes are played out. I ’d like a 
piece of squash-pie, though.” 

“ Jack-straws ? Paint-box ? Log-cabin ? Anything ? ” 
pursued Max, hopefully. 

“ You need n’t trouble yourself,” said Trotty, shaking his 
head ; “ I ’ve had all those every day. If I had a velocipede, 
I might like it. Or a watch. Max ! If I ’ll keep still, will 
you buy me a silver watch next week ? ” 

“0 — Max — ,” mournfully, two minutes after, “ I wished 


MAX S LOGIC. 


33 


I were a Brahmin. Or a genii. I want mamma to go to 
Oregon and be a trapper. She thought she would n’t. Won’t 
you ? ” 

Max felt as if he might at that moment, and consider him- 
self well off. His big black ‘‘ Logic” tumbled to the floor. 
He started up. He ran his hands through his hair. He 
paced the room. Trotty thought he was going crazy, and 
sat really still, for fear. 

“ I have it ! ” said Max, at last, and went off up garret. 

He came down with a queer-looking black thing under his 
arm, dusty and rusty, and very mysterious. He put it on 
the table (having knocked off his mother’s work-basket and 
Lill’s paint-box, in making room for it), and dusted it off 
with his handkerchief, and brushed it up with the stove- 
holder. Then he opened it, and out fell what looked to 
Trotty like little iron blocks. 

‘‘ I never builded a black block-house,” said Trotty, doubt- 
fully. “ It is n’t a coffin, is it ? I used to play funerals when 
I was a little boy.” 

“ It is a printing-press,” said Max. 

‘‘ Whose ? ” asked Trotty. 

‘‘ Mine,” said Max ; “ I used to have it when I was a little 
boy. I did n’t mean you should have it till you were bigger, 
but we ’re in a tight place, it strikes me.” 

‘‘ Who ’s tight ? ” asked Trotty, looking wild ; “ and I 

should just like to know how that thing ever stayed in this 
house all my life, and nobody gave it to me before ! ” 

2 * 


c 


34 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


“ I told Lill not to tell you,” said Max, ‘‘ till you were big 
enough. She used to have it. Now, Trotty,” Max went on, 
vaguely, ‘‘ see here, — you can play print, you know, and be 
a good boy.” 

But who ’ll teach me ? And what shall I print ? ” de- 
manded Trotty, jerking his chair along to see. 

0, I forgot,” said Max ; “ I suppose somebody has got 
to teach you. I ’ll call Lill, I guess.” 

So Max went ignominiously down, with his Logic open 
between his finger and thumb, and a desperate expression 
upon his countenance, to find Lill. 

“ But what shall he do,” asked Lill, not well pleased, 
“ when he has learned to print ? ” 

“ Make a newspaper,” said Max. 

Who ’ll prescribe to it ? ” asked Trotty. 

Well, make a magazine, then.” 

I don’t know any puzzles,” said Trotty ; “ and where 
should I find a serious story for it ? ” 

‘‘0 — well — why — he can make a book, can’t he ? 
Come, Trotty, make a book, and don’t bother us any more.” 

“ Who ’ll write it ? ” asked Trotty, determined to remain 
in the interrogative mood as long as he could. 

“ 0 dear — con — I should say — never mind — I will ! ” 
said Max, driven to the wall at last. 

So Max sat down and began to dictate. Lill set type. 
Trotty tipped it over. The new girl came up. Nate came 
in. Everybody looked on. 


max’s logic. 


35 


“ There was once a little boy,” said Max, — “a little boy, 
with a very kind brother and sister ; and he fought a 
duel and kicked up such a row getting over it that he 
drove his sister into consumption. His brother became 
insane, and stood on his head for two years, in the left-hand 
tower of the insane asylum. The girl went back to Ireland, 
because she could n’t live with him, and so he had to go with- 
out his molasses gingerbread, and live on Graham crusts that 
his mother left before went. She took a second-class passage 

in a blue balloon for Alaska, and went into the seal fisheries 
shortly after, where she died of a broken heart, telegraphing 
home with her latest breath, to appoint Mr. Merino, the 
butcher, sole guardian of her wretched son, who had eaten 
his last Graham crust the week before, and was reduced — ” 
Max,” said Trotty, in an awful voice, you may go. 
You may go. Max. My publishers have failed. They can’t 
print your book. It won’t sell. You may go. And when 
I die, sir, I had made a will bequeeving my royal agate to 
you, sir, but I ’d rather they ’d bury it with me, now I ” 

Thus unmistakably dismissed. Max and his masculine 
Logic disappeared from the scene, and Trotty was left once 
more at the mercy of feminine intuitions. 

Lill had one immediately. She did not call it an intuition, 
she called it a bright idea. 

‘‘ Just the thing ! ” she said. 

What was just the thing will be partly explained in the 
next chapter. 


36 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


CHAPTER VI. 

L I L l’S bright idea. 

S OME things can never be wholly explained, and this is 
one of them. 

In the first place, Trotty printed a story-book. In the next 
place. Somebody wrote it. 

We all know that Somebody had written a good many 
stories in which Trotty was somehow concerned, or inter- 
ested, but none of us know much more than that, except- 
ing Lill and Trotty and myself, as I have said somewhere 
before, and neither Lill nor Trotty nor I ever break a secret. 

Just the thing ! ” said Lill. I will get all Somebody’s 
stories, and we ’ll make a story-book. I ’ll show you, Trotty, 
and we ’ll all help. We ’ll go up garret where we can ink 
round. Let ’s let Nita and Nate in too, as compositors. Some 
of ’em are written, and some of ’em are printed already. 
I ’ll go down town this minute, and get some paper and 
things. Why, it would keep you busy a year ! ” 

Trotty had some grave doubts about being kept busy at 
anything a year, but generously suppressed them, and thought- 
fully told Lill to be as quick as she could, and he ’d have the 
binding gold and red. 

Lill was very quick, and they began that very afternoon. 


lill’s bright idea. 


37 


^lax carried Trotty up into the attic, and fixed his chair by 
the printing-table. Nate came over, and Nita was coming if 
she could, and they cut the book out in excellent spirits. 
First, they made the binding, — of red paper, with gold stars. 
Lill said they had better put that away till they were ready 
for it, because it would tumble. So they put it away. Then 
they cut out the pages, out of white printing-paper that Lill 
had bought for three cents a sheet. They had twelve sheets. 
They folded each sheet up six times, and so made twelve 
pages of it. Trotty thought they should print a great deal 
more than twelve times twelve pages. Lill said they would 
see. 

‘‘ What shall we begin with ? ” asked Nate. They looked 
the stories over, to see what they should begin with. Some 
of them were printed, and some of them were written. 
Some of them were for big children, and some of them were 
for little children. Some were about boys, and some about 
girls. They did n’t know what to do. 

“ Let ’s print all tlie girls at once, and all the boys at the 
same time,” said Trotty. 

I would n’t,” said Nita, who had just come in. 

0 yes,” said Trotty. 

Now the first story Lill took up proved to be a boy’s story, 
so they began with that. It was a written one, so they 
began to print it. 

Lill was very patient. Max came in too, and helped ; but 
it was slow work. When the supper-bell rang they had a 
page and a half set up. 


38 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


“We ’ll go on with it to-morrow,” said Lill. 

This was the story : — 

BOBBIT’S HOTEL. 

A LITTLE fellow, not much higher than a yard-stick. 
Stunted and stubbed like a dwarf pear-tree ; as dirty as 
the mud under his feet ; as ragged as the Coliseum after 
the great gale ; with little, restless, grimy hands, with little, 
restless, snapping eyes, with a little, hungry mouth, bare 
feet (or nearly, — he wore some holes with a little shoe to 
them), bare hands, bare knees sticking though his trousers, 
a hat without a rim, — a boy without a bed, — that was Bob- 
bit. 

It was six o’clock of a January night, and storming too. 
Bobbit was standing — never mind the name of the street — 
but he was standing at the foot of it (it was in Boston) , in a 
little snow-drift, up to his knees. The sleet went down his 
neck, and up his sleeves, and into the holes in his trousers, 
and into the holes with a little shoe on them ; it hung in a 
fringe on his old hat, and swung to and fro like the fringe 
which ladies wear headed with guipure lace upon their cloaks. 
Bobbit thought of that, looking out from behind the little 
icicles ; he had seen a great many handsome cloaks that day ; 
it was what he called a “ handsome day ” ; something was 
going on at the Music Hall, I believe, and the streets had 
been as full of pretty things as the sky was of sunlight, till 


bobbit’s hotel. 


39 


the clouds and the sleet came up. For there is a greater dif- 
ference in the streets than you would ever suspect, unless 
you should belong to them, and have nothing to do but watch 
them, like Bobbit. They have their ‘‘ scrub-days ” and their 
dress-days, like you or me or anybody else but Bobbit, whose 
whole life had been a ‘‘ scrub-day,” from beginning to end, — 
and neither you nor I nor anybody else but just Bobbit him- 
self can know, I suppose, what that may mean. 

“ It ’s a brick of a night to have supper,” said Bobbit, 
standing in the snow-drift, — ‘‘a brick.” 

Bobbit talked slang, to be sure, never having enjoyed the 
benefits of what we call a “ liberal education ” ; yet I am not 
sure, after all, that a Harvard graduate would have under- 
stood Bobbit if he had stood in the snow-drift and heard what 
he said. In fact, you would have to know that Bobbit did 
not have a supper every night, to understand it altogether, 
and even then I do not think you would understand it, un- 
less you were to go without your supper two or three nights 
— or even one — yourself. 

Tuesday Bobbit had a dinner ; Monday he picked up quite 
a breakfast ; to-day he would have a dinner and a supper 
too, it had been so stormy ; there had been a good many gen- 
tlemen afraid to leave their horses ; Bobbit had learned from 
long experience to tell by the color of a horse, or by his hoofs 
or his ears, whether he would be restless in a sleet-storm. 
He had earned ten cents since noon holding cream-colored 
horses with black manes, and five for a little mouse-colored 
marc just shaved. 


40 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


Bobbit carried half his snow-drift into a baker’s shop with 
him. His eyes twinkled a little like the feathers of a shut- 
tlecock when you play fast. Was it not enough to justify 
any one in feeling like a shuttlecock to have three days’ liv- 
ing in his pocket ? For you see five cents would buy you two 
little rolls and a doughnut ; and to live for two days on ten 
cents’ worth of baked beans, why, nothing could be easier ; 
especially if you saved your ten cents, and took your beans 
hot to-morrow noon. 

Now when Bobbit had got into the baker’s shop and bought 
his doughnut, he saw two little Irish boys looking in at the 
baker’s window. 

“ That ’s a pity ! ” said Bobbit ; for the two little boys 
stood quite still, flattening their noses on the glass ; they had 
ragged hats and holes in their shoes, and they stood in a 
snow-drift as Bobbit had done. Now when two little boys 
will stand still in the throat of a sleet-storm to look in at a 
baker’s window, it generally means that they do it for good 
reasons ; and Bobbit had done it so many times himself, that 
he looked very wise 'when he said, “That’s a pity.” He 
looked at his doughnut too, then at the window, then at the 
doughnut ; so, back and forth, as he would if he had been 
dodging a Haymarket Square policeman. 

“ I will take three doughnuts,” said he to the baker, with 
a little gulp, “ and three cents’ worth more of bread. Now 
I ’ve got three cents left. Won’t you just hand over a few 
cold beans ? ” 


bobbit’s hotel. 


41 


So the baker gave him the bread and the doughnuts and 
cold beans, and Bobbit came out into the drift. 

‘‘ Halloo !” said he. 

’Loo ! ” said the Irish boys both together. 

Got any grub ? ” asked Bobbit. This was pointed, if not 
elegant, you see. 

Nery,” said the Irish boys with equal emphasis. 

Belong to anybody ? ” continued Bobbit. 

Not much.” 

Anywheres to put up ? ” 

You bet not ! ” 

/ live in a hotel,” said Bobbit, with an air. 

“ Oh ! ” said the boys. 

I take in folks,” continued Bobbit, magnificently, “ once 
in a while ; free grettis. I ’ll lodge you and board you till 
mornin’. You just hold your tongue and look spry. Then 
tag after.” 

There was a little smell of cold beans and hot doughnuts 
all about Bobbit. The Irish boys followed him like two little 
dogs, asking no questions ; they held their heads out, and 
licked their lips. 

Bobbit wound in and out like a crochet-needle through 
loops of streets. The two boys ‘Mooked spry ” and ‘‘ tagged 
after.” Bobbit did not speak ; he kept his eyes on stray po- 
licemen and his hat over his eyes. 

“ It’s better ’n the lock-up,” he said once over his shoul- 
der. “ On fair nights it ’s nobody’s business. When it 


42 


TROTTY’S WEDDING TOUR. 


comes to drifts and sech, them chaps with brass buttons 
keeps their eyes peeled. Took me up once last winter fur 
roostin’ in a barrel. I was a gone goose fur fifteen days. Take 
it in general, I ’m independent in my way of life — hold on 
there ! That ’s the railroad. There ’s a ditch the off side of 
you I It ’s skeery travellin’ fur a stranger. But we ’ve got 
about there.” 

‘‘About there” was quite out of the loops of streets, out 
of the netted alleys, out of the knotted lanes that tied the 
great city in. The three children had wandered off upon the 
windy, oozy Charlestown flats, where there was an ugly pur- 
ple mist, and much slush and lumber and old boots and ash- 
heaps and wrecks of things. 

“ There ’s my hotel,” said Bobbit at last. 

The Irish boys looked, — north, east, south, west, — looked 
again and looked hard. They saw nothing but an old wall 
of an old burned building that hid them a little from the 
road, and the road from them, a pile of bare bleached timber, 
and an old locomotive boiler, rusty, and half buried in a heap 
of rubbish. But the cold beans and the doughnuts were in 
Bobbit’ s pockets, and faith in Bobbit was in their hearts. 

“ Now,” said Bobbit, with an amazing chuckle for a boy 
who was going to give to-morrow’s dinner to another boy, 
“ you walk right along as ef you was going to walk a mile, 
and when you see I’ve doven — dive ! The next they 
knew after that, Bobbit had “ doven ” into the old engine 
boiler, and they after him. 


bobbit’s hotel. 


43 


There now ! ” said Bobbit, grandly, ‘‘ wbat do you think 
of this fur a cheap hotel ? ” 



> The storm seemed all at once to have stopped ; the great 
curve of the boiler shut it out ; only a dim, dull roar, like 
that of distant machinery, or fire, or river-dams, sounded 
about them. Bobbit pulled up an old hogshead-top against 
the open mouth of the boiler ; this made it very dark, but 
almost warm, in the hotel. The little Irish boys felt around 
with their hands, and found that there were dry leaves, salt 



44 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


hay, and pieces of a worn-out something — jacket perhaps — 
underneath them. 

“ Mattrass, hedclo’es, carpet, sofy, all to order, and all to 
once, gentlemen,” said Bobbit. ‘‘ Fust-class furniture in my 
hotel ! Hold on a spell till I turn on the gas.” All in a 
minute a wonderful thing happened. A little pink candle 
blazed up and burned ; it had an old nut-socket for a candle- 
stick ; it stood quite firm and shone distinctly on the beans 
and doughnuts. 

Gener’lly speaking, I can eat in the dark,” said Bobbit ; 

but when it comes to company, I can’t.” 

The fact was that Bobbit had just six matches and this 
little penny pink candle put away under a corner of his hotel 
“ sofy ” on purpose for ‘‘ company.” Nobody knows now — 
I wish that somebody did — how much ‘‘ company ” Bobbit 
had entertained in his hotel. 

It does n’t burn not so long as it might,” said Bobbit, 
with a jerk at the penny candle. ‘‘ Better fall to while you 
can see the way to your mouth.” 

So they “ fell to ” ; and the Irish boys ate up the beans, to 
begin with ; but Bobbit did not say anything about to-mor- 
row’s dinner. 

“ Got any names to you ? ” said he, as they broke the last 
doughnut into three pieces, and ate it slowly, to make it last 
as long as the candle did. 

“ Not many to tell on,” said the larger of the little guests, 
with his mouth full. “ The woman as we run beggin’ fur till 


bobbit’s hotel. 


45 


she was took up fur dhrink last summer, she called us Harum 
and Scarum, jest. I ’m Harum, he ’s Scarum.” 

I ’ve heerd worse names ’n that, I ’m sure,” said Bobbit, 
politely. 

By and by the doughnut was all gone, and the candle too. 
Bobbit blew out the last pink spark, and it grew very dark in 
the hotel. 

‘‘ Kind o’ chilly, too,” said the little landlord. “ Chillier ’n 
common. The storm must have riz. Sometimes it blows in. 
But ’t ain’t often I can’t keep ’most cumf’t’ble in my rear 
soot o’ rooms. You just crawl in fur ’s you can go, and 
stick yer feet into them old jacket sleeves. There ’ll be one 
apiece fur both on ye. Them ’s my foot-muffs. I take a 
sight o’ heat out on ’em. A chap as I lodged here last 
month, as went to the school-ship fur loafin’, he left it to me 
‘ to settle my bill,’ says he. I took it very well of that chap. 
He was sick here a week and two days. But I did n’t ax fur 
his jacket. I told him we ’d charge it till his ship come in. 
But you see it turned out as he come into the ship. You 
crawl over. There ! them ’s my first-class apartments. 
Cumf’t’ble ? ” 

Some I ” said Harum. 

I hain’t been so warm, not since the last thaw, at all, at 
all,” said Scarum, sleepily. Indeed, Scarum was sound 
asleep by the time he had said it ; and Harum was asleep by 
the time that Scarum was. They curled up in the school- 
ship boy’s jacket, like two little puppies, with their heads un- 


46 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


der their arms and their mouths open. In fact, they seemed 
a great deal more like little dogs than they did like little boys. 
But Bobbit did not think of this ; they were very much like 
all his lodgers. 

“ Babies,” he said to himself, twisting himself together to 
keep warm, “ jest babies. Now I ’d like to know what ’ud 
ha’ become o’ them two this night, ef I did n’t happen to keep 
hotel. Wh-e-ew ! ” 

This night was growing quite cold enough to emphasize. 
Bobbit was a little surprised it grew so cold. You see he 
was used to sleeping in the ‘‘ first-class rooms,” over under 
the jacket and the hay. Bight here in the lips of the boiler 
it was icy and wet. The wind puffed in at the cracks where 
the hogshead top did not fit ; it seemed as if the hotel were 
drawing in great breaths, like an animal, into its iron lungs. 
The sleet, too, shot in little broadsides of it, cutting and 
cold ; Bobbit’ s hands bled where it struck them ; but it was 
so dark that he did not know it. 

“ The wind ’s the wrong way,” said Bobbit, ‘‘ my front 
door ’ll be down afore morning. Heigh-o ! — Harum ! ” 

Harum was asleep. 

‘‘Scarum!” 

Scarum was asleep. 

‘‘ Warm as toast ! ” said Bobbit, feeling of them. ‘‘ Won- 
der ef they could spare me the jacket ! ” 

But after some thought he concluded not to take the jacket. 
The storm was screaming horribly, overhead, this side, that 


BOBBIT S HOTEL. 


47 


side, all about, and the wind still the wrong way. If the 
front door should go down, the jacket would not be any too 
much for his little lodgers. 

“ I won’t ask fur ’t,” said Bobbit, with a little grim smile. 
‘‘ I brung ’em in here. I won’t ax fur the jacket.” 

So he did not ask for the jacket, and by and by the door 
went down. 

“ Seems to me I never knew such a night ; not so much 
like notched knives,” said poor Bobbit; for the boiler gaped 
cruelly and drew in long breaths of the storm upon him. 
The snow swept in, and the wind ; the sleet crusted over his 
bleeding fingers and in his hair. It was very dark ; often, 
when the wind was the wrong way, and that front door went 
down, he could see stars through the rusty gums of the crea- 
ture, — the boiler seemed more like a creature than like a 
hotel after all, sometimes, — but now it opened into blank 
blackness and noise. 

It was very, very cold. Bobbit had been very cold before, 
but never so cold as this. He looked over at the “ best soot ” 
where his little lodgers lay, and thought how warm it must 
be in there. He kept the edge of the storm from the little 
boys, you see ; it struck and broke upon his own poor little 
freezing flesh. If he could change places with Harum and 
Scarum ! If he could only change places for a little while ! 

But Bobbit shook his head hard at himself. 

‘‘ That ’s one way to keep a hotel ! Put folks into yer 
front entries and freeze ’em afore mornin’ ! ” 


48 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


But it was bitter cold ! Bobbit felt bitten and gnawed all 
over. 

‘‘ I should ha’ liked the — jacket, — but I won’t. No, I 
won’t ! ” said Bobbit. He put his head down upon his arm ; 
the snow had drifted in high and soft ; Ins arm and his head 
went down into it, like a cold cushion. 

‘‘ I ’ll have a white pillar-case at any rate,” said Bobbit, 
slowly, wondering why he didn’t laugh at his own joke. 
“And I won’t — no, I won’t — they was company. And 
sech babies. Folks as keeps hotels must put up — with — 
onconvenience. It ’s somethin’ to hev a white — pillar-case 
of yer own.” 

The little hotel-keeper sunk lower and lower into his white 
pillow-case. The hotel door gaped steadily. All the front 
entry filled with snow. There was so much snow that the 
boiler choked and gaped no longer to the black night. In- 
stead, it grew dully white and warm, so the little lodgers in 
the best rooms thought, when they waked each other up once 
in the night, by trying to get their four feet into one of the 
jacket sleeves. They called out to Bobbit, but he lay quite 
still in the front entry, and made no answer. So they thought 
how comfortable they were, and went to sleep again. 

Now, in the morning, there was a great noise inside the 
boiler, and outside too, for that matter. For Bobbit’s hotel 
was drifted and drowned almost out of sight and breath by 
the piling snow ; and Bobbit’s little lodgers, when they found 
it out, whined and whooped till a policeman and a butcher 
and two shovels came to dig them out. 


bobbit’s hotel. 


49 


“ Puppies,” said the policeman, letting sunlight in, “ froze 
up here over night. A batch of pup — Hal — loo ! ” 

For his shovel struck hard on something, and it was not a 
puppy. It was the little hotel-keeper on his white pillow- 
case, asleep and cold ; so sound asleep and so cold that 
neither the policeman nor the butcher nor Harum nor Scarum 
could wake him, though they tried their best for an hour. 

“ He give them other young uns the warmth of the whole 
freezing concern ! ” said the policeman, talking very fast. 
“ That ’s what I call g-r-i-t I ” 

Harum and Scarum called it a pity. They did not know 
what else to call it. 

A norful pity ! ” said Harum, as they were marched off 
to the Little Wanderer’s Home. 

“ Where ’s he gone to ? ” whispered Scarum, looking fright- 
•ened. 

‘‘ Purrgetorry, mebbe,” suggested Harum. 

‘‘ Will he kape hotel in Purrgetorry ? ” asked Scarum, after 
a very little very stupid thought. 

It ’s the praste as knows. I doant,” said Harum. 

Now Scarum was thinking a very curious thing. If he 
keeps hotel in Purrgetorry,” said Scarum to himself, I hope 
they ’ll give him tree cumf’t’bles, and coaid beans every day, 
jist.” But he did not think about it long enough to say it ; 
and he would n’t have known how to say it, if he had. Be- 
sides, that is the end of the story. 


3 


D 


50 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


CHAPTER YII. 


ANOTHER STORY. 


HAT story was printed in three days. I don’t know 



JL how many days it would have taken, but Max said 
“ the printer’s devil ” helped. Trotty looked very grave, and 
told his mother that Max was learning to swear ; but Lill 
said it was her belief that Max came up over-night and 
printed himself. At any rate, every morning there was a 
clean page or two somehow mysteriously added to the story- 
book, and every morning Max was too busy studying to 
answer any questions about anything. However that may 
be, the Bobbit story went off swimmingly, and on the fourth ^ 
day, the children gathered together in solemn conclave, to 
select the next. 

The next was to be a boy’s story, too, you remember. 
They turned the leaves over. They tossed the papers about. 
Lill held them. She sat down on the attic floor and began 
to read. 

' “ That ’s no fair 1 ” cried Trotty. And indeed it was n’t. 

‘‘Just wait till I see how it turned out,” begged Lill, 
whisking over the leaves fast. 

“ No,” said Nate, “ if you ’ve got to read, you should read. 
Let ’s hear some of it, and see.” 


THE GIEL WHO COULD NOT WRITE. 


51 


“ P’raps it would n’t suit the public taste as well as it 
does yours,” observed Trotty, with an awful, superior, 
genuine publisher’s smile, — a smile that would have ex- 
tinguished Somebody if that unfortunate author had seen 
it. ‘‘ We can’t afford to be bankrushed,'^^ said Trotty, 
grandly, again. 

So Lill tliought she would read a little of the story aloud, 
and see if it were likely to “ bankrush ” them, or not. So 
she began. When she had begun, she thought she would go 
on. In fact, she thought she would read it through, as 
nobody asked her to stop, and even Trotty had ceased so tell 
her that she did n’t pronounce her words right, and that she 
read like a frog he knew once, who had a sore froat, and lived 
inf the spring in the garding. 

This was a story which Somebody had once printed in the 
Young Folks.” It was rather a long story, in two chapters. 
It was called : — 


THE GIEL WHO COULD NOT WRITE A COMPOSITION. 

PART I. 

‘‘ Try again, Jemima,” said the principal, patiently. 

The principal spoke so very patiently that Jemima did 
not feel at all encouraged to try again. If she had spoken 
pleasantly, or hopefully, or cheerfully, or sadly, or even 


52 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


angrily, it would have been more inspiriting. But so very 
patiently ! 

Jemima sighed. 

“ I ’ve tried again so many times ! ” she said. And this 
was true. So many times that the principal had whispered 
to the first assistant, and the first assistant had whispered to 



the second assistant, and the Latin department suspected, 
and the girls themselves had begun to understand, that Jem 
Jasper could not write a composition. 




THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT WRITE. 


53 


Poor little Jem! Only sixteen years old, and a thousand 
miles away from her father, as homesick as a lost canary, 
stranded for a year in this awful Massachusetts boarding- 
school, where the Juniors studied Greek and the Seniors 
talked of applying at Amherst, — and could n’t write a 
composition 1 

Jem was not exactly a dunce, either. She stood very well 
in algebra, and really enjoyed her natural philosophy. At 
book-keeping she did no worse, perhaps a little better, than 
most girls. In the gymnasium she had taken a prize. She 
had a sunny little freckled face, too, with red hair that she 
was n’t ashamed of, and red cheeks that she could n’t have 
been ashamed of if she had tried ; and people liked her, in a 
way. Her teachers were slow to scold her, and the girls 
were not apt to laugh at her. But not to be able to write a 
composition in a school where the Seniors talked of applying 
at Amherst ! 

The lecturer on style bore with her for one term. Then 
he handed her and her compositions over to the principal. 
The principal had been patient with her for another term. 
Now she had grown so very patient that she sat perplexed. 

“ I don’t know what to do with you,” she slowly said. 

‘‘ I wish you would n’t do anything with me,” said Jem, 
doggedly. 

The principal frowned a little, thinking this was imperti- 
nent in Jem ; then she smiled a little, and concluded that it 
was only stupid. 


54 


trotty’s wedding touk. 


Father ’ll think I am a fool,” said Jem. “ And I don’t 
think I am, do you ? ” 

The principal smiled and hesitated. 

“ I don’t feel like a fool,” continued Jem, candidly. 

“Not even when you ’re told to write a composition ? ” 
smiled the principal. 

“ No,” said Jem, boldly. “ I don’t feel like a fool when 
I ’m asked to write a composition. I feel as if I were in 
prison, and going to be hung.” 

The principal shook her patient head, and only smiled the 
more. 

One day a learned lady called on the principal. She was 
the editor of the Wednesday Evening Early Visitor, and a 
very learned lady indeed. 

“ What shall I do with that girl ? ” asked the principal. 

“ Turn her over to me,” said the learned lady. 

“You can’t get a composition out of her that is fit to be 
read.” 

“ We ’ll see.” 

“But it’s impossible. Look these over and judge for 
yourself.” 

The principal threw down on the desk a package of poor 
little Jem’s compositions, and the editor of the Wednesday 
Evening Early Visitor pitilessly read them, every one. 

This happened so long ago that I have only been able to 
procure a few. 

They ran like this : — 


THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT WRITE. 


55 


The Greeks. 

The Greeks were a very warlike people. Socrates was a 
Greek, and so was Homer. The Peloponnesian War was 
long and bloody, and is one to be remembered, when time 
shall be no more. 

(A large blot,') 

Queen Elizabeth. 

Queen Elizabeth died in 1603. Macaulay says, “ In 1603 
the great Queen died.” That is a great deal better way to 
say it, I know. She wore a ruff, and killed somebody. I 
think it was Leicester. I cannot think of anything else to 
say about her. 

(^Many tears.) 


Mirthfulness. 

Mirthfulness is one of the most remarkable traits of the 
human heart. 

(^An abrupt stop.) 

‘‘ Nevertheless,” said the learned lady, less confidently, 
“ I T1 try her.” 

The learned lady tried her, in awful earnest. Jem had 
never been so tried before. Classical Dictionaries and Eng- 
lish Grammars, Russell’s Speakers and Parker’s Outlines, 
Somebody’s Elements (but what they were elements of, poor 
Jem has never discovered to this dpy) and Somebody Else’s 
Young Author, piled in bulwarks on Jem’s study-table. Pa- 
tiently, aspiringly, bitterly, tearfully, despairingly, Jem 


56 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


attacked them. The lady chose her subjects.” She chose 
her own subjects. “ Outlines ” and plans ” and “ skele- 
tons ” and “ suggestions ” were given to her. She made 
outlines and plans and skeletons and suggestions of her own. 
She wrote poetry. She tried blank verse, and the metres of 
Horace. She wrote upon the beauties of nature, and the 
price of coal. She tried her hand at romance and essays. 
She effected “ abstracts ” of sermons, and “ abridgments ” 
of history, and “ topics ” of all varieties. The editor of the 
Wednesday Evening Early Visitor was very faithful with 
her, — very. 

But one day Jem brought her a composition on Icarus. 
Poor Jem had cried all night, and studied all day, upset 
three ink-bottles, and spoiled one dress ; the bulwark of 
dictionaries and elements danced before her dizzy eyes in a 
hopeless mass of horror, — and this was the composition on 
Icarus : — 

Icarus. 

Icarus was the son of Daedalus. They fled from Minos. 
Icarus made wings of wax, which melted. He fell into the 
Midsummer Night’s Dream, and the lovely and accomplished 
Una carried him and her father Anchises upon her shoulders, 
through the siege of Troy. 

The Editor of the Wednesday Evening Early Visitor read 
this, and there was a pause. 

I think,” said the Editor of the Wednesday Evening 


THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT WRITE. 


57 


Early Visitor, then, “ that we will not meet again next week. 
I think — that it may be as well, — Miss Jasper, for you to 
surrender the effort to master the art of composition.” 

Poor little Miss Jasper ‘‘ surrendered ” heartily. The 
principal, not at all patiently, informed her that she was 
grieved to feel, but feel she did, that it would not be best for 
her to pursue her studies in the seminary beyond the close 
of the term, — that perhaps a retired Western life would be 
more calculated to improve her mind, — and that she had 
written to her father to that effect. At that^ Jem’s heart 
broke. 

‘‘ What is your father ? ” asked some sympathetic girls in 
a little crowd about her. 

‘‘Furniture,” sobbed Jem. “And poor, almost, — and 
I ’ve cost him so much, — and there ’s ahoy yet to come after 
me, — and it seems as if I could n’t bo — bear it, to go home 
a fu — fool!” 

Jem did not wait for the end of the term, so they tell me, 
nor for the departure of the letter. She burned her compo- 
sitions, tipped over the bulwark of elements, packed her 
trunks, and went home. Her father was making a coffin, 
wlien she walked, dusty and wretched from her long journey, 
into the shop. 

“ What did you come home for ? ” said he. 

“ Because I ’m a dunce,” said she. 

“ Have you told your mother ? ” said he. 

“ Yes,” said she. 

3 * 


58 


teotty’s wedding tour. 


“ What did she say? ” asked the furniture-dealer, after a 
silence. 

It ’s no matter, sir, if you please,” said the poor little 
dunce, after another. For her mother was a sickly woman, 
not a very happy one, and sometimes — to tell the truth — a 
cross one. She was mortified and surprised, and Jem was 
mortified and tired, and whatever welcome home she had had 
in the house, I suspect she found that in the store an im- 
provement. 

“ Well, well,” said her father, taking up his hammer again. 
‘‘ Never mind. Just run and get me those nails on the low 
shelf, will you ? and never mind ! ” 

But he said to himself, “ So my poor little girl is stupid, is 
she ? I ’ll see if I can’t make one place for her where she ’ll 
forget it.” 

So it happened that Jem, after she left off writing compo- 
sitions, used to run in and out of the shop so much. In 
consequence, two things came about. She did indeed very 
nearly forget the composition on Icarus. And there will be 
another chapterful of her. 


PART II. 

JExM has sent to Chicago for a declining-chair ! ” 

What ? ” 

‘‘ A declining-chair. I heard her. Yes, I did. Yon bet 
Jem has sent to Chicago for a declining-chair.” 


THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT WRITE. 


59 


Poppet climbed to the top of the Magee stove (the fire 
happened fortunately to be low), and sat there triumphant. 
Poppet’s mother was resting on the mending-basket, and she 
sat there ^ amazed. 

If Jem had been a boy, she might have stripped the city 
of Chicago of its stock of ‘‘ declining-chairs,” and neither 
Poppet, nor his mother, nor the world at large would have 
given a second thought to it. But she was n’t. And Poppet 
and his mother and the world at large have given several 
thoughts to it before now. Indeed, they have given so many 
thoughts to it that Jem has got into the newspapers. But 
that is no reason why she should not get into the “ Young 
Folks” that I can see ; for, in the first place, the people who 
read the Young Folks ” do not, I think I may venture to 
affirm, always read the newspapers ; and, in the next place, I 
have collected some particulars about Jem with which neither 
the newspapers nor the “ Young Folks ” are acquainted. 

It was about an hour before Poppet came home to his 
mother, that Jem had taken the sign down, and locked her- 
self into the store to cry over it. She laid the heavy board 
across a barrel, and tearfully drew her fingers through the 
gilt shade of the massive letters till their shine went out 
before her blinded eyes and 

H. JASPER. 

Furniture Warerooms. 


60 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


went into sudden mourning as deep as her own bombazine 
dress. 

She had taken the sign down in a fit of impatient grief 
almost like vexation. It seemed to her as if there were a 
kind of positive personal wickedness in that sign. To hold 
up its bare face to the world just the same as ever, and per- 
sist that H. Jasper kept furniture warerooms, when — 0 
poor father ! poor father ! And there the bold-faced sign was 
drenched and forgiven in a flood of tears. 

It was just a week that morning since he died. The 
funeral was over, the muddj ground was stamped over the 
last piece of furniture that H. Jasper would ever own, the 
house was swept, the sick-room aired and dreadfully fresh. 
Relations in light mourning had gone to their own happy 
homes, her mother had taken to the mending-basket and 
untold accumulated stockings, and Poppet had played his 
first game of marbles — half frightened to death, too, because 
he laughed in the course of it — with an Irish boy in the 
street. 

Nobody but Jem had come to the store. Nobody, not even 
Jem, knew what was to become of the store. Nobody, least 
of all Jem, knew what was to become of herself. 

‘‘ What becomes of me becomes of us all,” she said to her- 
self, — and she said it, I must own, at the funeral. I’m 
father now.” 

It did not seem to her that she had had any time to cry, 
till she locked herself in with that sign ; the funeral and the 


THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT WRITE. 


61 


relations in light mourning and Poppet and her mother had 
kept her so busy. So for a little while she sat and cried on 
the sign. 

Nobody but Jem knew what comfort she and her father had 
taken in the shop behind that false, persisting sign. How she 
had run on the errands, and held the nails, and tacked the 
bindings, and chosen the chintz, and measured the mould- 
ings, and sawed the legs, and even helped to cover the 
lounges. How he had made fun of her and said, ‘‘ We ought 
to let a J. into the old shingle, Jem, — ‘ H & J.’ Or Jasper 
and Daughter — eh ? ” How he had told her that she knew 
how to strike a nail, and had an eye for a foot-rule, and hung 
a curtain as well as he did ; and he hoped that Poppet, when 
he got through college, would be half as smart. How the 
mention of college reminded her faintly of Icarus, but very 
faintly, and she was sure that it did not remind him, and 
that made her very happy. What a help she had been to 
him, and how pleasant life had been ! How suddenly and 
awfully help and pleasure stopped that day a week ago! 
How drearily and darkly her two happy years came down 
with the old sign ! 

Ah, well ! Ah, well ! Jem wiped up the sign and her 
eyes together. This would never do. She had cried ten 
minutes by the clock, and she could spare the time to cry no 
longer. Something must be done. H. Jasper had left no 
will, his furniture, an ailing wife. Poppet, and a daughter 
eighteen years old who could not write a composition. 


62 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


“ What will they do ? ” said all the relations in light 
mourning, after they had got home. “ If Jemima had only 
been a boy ! ” 

What shall I do ? ” repeated Jem, dabbing the sign quite 
dry. ‘‘ If I had only been a boy ! ” 

“ Let — Jem — look after — the stock.” Although she 
was n’t a boy, the last thing that her father had faintly said 
was this. It had seemed very unnatural to the relations in 
light mourning. There was an uncle who expected to be 
executor, and a first cousin who talked of buying out him- 
self. But it had seemed so natural to Jem that she had not 
even offered the store-key to the uncle, and whatever appro- 
priate masculine disturbance of the ‘‘ estate ” the law might 
require by and by, nobody was ready just now to trouble lit- 
tle Jem, wishing that she were a boy, in the old store, over 
the old sign. 

Somebody did trouble her, however. It was a customer, 
at the locked door. 

“ Come in,” said Jem. 

“ I would if I could,” said the customer through the key- 
hole. 

0, I forgot,” said Jem, jumping, and let him in. 

“ Wliere ’s your father ? ” said the customer. He was a 
loud man, just in from the prairies somewhere, and “ has not 
heard,” thought Jem. 

She thought it aloud in her confusion, and the loud man, 
in his confusion, sat down on one end of the sign, and 


THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT WRITE. 


63 


brought the other end and the truth together against his 
head at once. 

‘‘You don’t say ! Beg pardon. What did he die of ? So 
you ’re runnin’ the business ? Well, I ’ve come to get a 
reclining-chair for my wife. One of these big ones, you 
know, that tip back into last week. Expensive, I s’pose, but 
you see she ’s got bad in her back, and nothin’ ’ll do for her 
but one of them chairs. Thought I ’d step in this mornin’ 
and price one. Up stairs ? I ’ll go right along up. Beg 
pardon, I ’m sure ! What did you say he died of ? ” 

Jem did not say. In fact, she did not say anything. 
Something in the loud man’s long speech had set her think- 
ing suddenly and sharply. She followed him quite up stairs 
in silence before she remembered to tell him that they had 
not a reclining-chair in the store, but one shop-worn sample. 
By that time she had thought hard. “ Runnin’ the business 
herself, was she ? ” Why ! For a moment she lost her breath. 
The next, before she knew it, she had said to the loud man, 
“ I can get you such a chair as you want, sir, in three days. 
We have to send to Chicago for them, and I can’t promise it 
before that ; but I can meet your order in three days,” — 
had said it, and could n’t help it now. 

“ Prompt? ” said the loud man. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ I want a plenty of springs, mind, and good horse-hair 
stuffing, and a latch that won’t get out of order.” 

“Yes, sir.” Jem took down the orders in her note-book, 
fast. 


64 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


“ And some kind of a green cover, — like this.’’ 

‘‘You want rep, sir. Blue-green ? or yellow ? ” 

“ 1 ’ll leave that to you, I guess,” said the customer, hesi- 
tating. “ Yellow ” went into the note-book. 

“ You ’ll get me a first-class chair, will you ? — in three 
days, prompt ? ” 

“ I certainly will,” said Jem. 

“ What will you charge me ? ’ 

“ Forty dollars.” 

“ Whe-ew ! You mean to make somethihg out of me, if 
you be a girl ! That ’s too much.” 

“ That ’s the price of your order, sir,” said Jem, firmly, 
looking as much like business as a little red-haired, red- 
cheeked, freckled girl, with tears on her face, could possibly 
look. “ I can give you a smaller size, with inferior stuffing, 
for thirty.” 

“ My wife ’s pretty considerable size herself,” mused the 
customer. “ She might break through on thirty, might n’t 
she now ? ” 

“ I ’m afraid she might,” said Jem, demurely. 

“ I ’ll go forty on it, I guess, and do the thing ship-shape,” 
concluded the customer. 

The first thing that Jem did, when the customer had gone, 
was to go straight out and hang up the sign again ; and as 
she stood on the ladder in the sun the gilt of the mourning 
letters revived, and winked at her shrewdly, with a certain 
relieved, comfortable air, too, such as people have been known 


THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT WRITE. 


65 


to wear in a change from crape to lilac on a fine Easter Sun- 
day. Jem could not help laughing in spite of herself, — then 
wished her father could see it, — and so cried again. 

However, she did not cry too hard to prevent her going to 
the express office at once with the order for her reclining- 
chair ; and by the time that she had done this, and got home, 
her eyes were quite dry, and very bright. She walked right 
into the sitting-room, and said, ‘‘ I am going to carry on the 
business myself.” 

Jemima Jasper ! — ” 

“I am going to carry on the business myself,” repeated 
Jem. Her mother fell through the mending-basket, and 
Poppet tipped over the stove. 

It seemed to Jem as if, with that single and simple remark 
of hers, all the ordinary world fell through and tipped over. 
The relations in light mourning expostulated. Everybody 
expostulated. People wrote, called, called again, sent mes- 
sages, were shocked, were sure it would n’t do, entreated, 
threatened, argued, urged, — made as much commotion over 
that one poor little girl’s sending to Chicago for that “ de- 
clining-chair,” as if she had proclaimed war against the Czar 
of Russia on her own responsibility and resources. 

They said, “ Why did n’t she let her uncle sell out the 
stock for her ? ” 

“ Why did n’t she take in plain sewing ? ” 

Or she could teach a few little children at home.” 

‘‘ It would be so much more suitable ! ” 


66 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


“Yes, and womanly and lady-like, and all that.” 

“ She would never make a cent, you know.” 

“ Mrs. Jasper should n’t indulge that girl so.” 

And to crown all, “ What a pity she could n’t wait till 
Poppet was large enough to support her ! ” 

But Jem showed a firm little freckled face to everybody, 
and stoutly said, “ I understand the furniture business. I 
don’t understand anything else. I am just as well able to 
support the family as if I were n’t a girl, and I mean to do 
it. It would please father, and it pleases me. Just let me 
alone and see.” 

A story is a story, however large. And this is the rest of 
it ; and no more wonderful, after all, than truth is apt to be. 

One day, some years after those five stars overhead, the 
editor of the Wednesday Evening Early Visitor, travelling 
at the West with her friend the principal, stepped into a 
furniture store in a brisk little town in Illinois, to buy a 
bracket. 

The ladies were waited upon by rather a small boy, who 
stood behind the counter with a ceremonious and important 
air. He looked so small, so ceremonious, and so important 
that the ladies hesitated, and asked, “ Can we see one of the 
firm ? ” 

“ The firm is busy in the counting-room just now,” said 
the boy, grandly. “ She has let the clerk off on a holiday, 
and I tend after school to-day. What would you like, 
ma’am ? ” 


THE GIKL WHO COULD NOT WRITE. 


67 


“ Poppet,” said a bright, busy voice at this moment, “ just 
run over to the freight depot and tell Carter to hurry up 
those lounges. Be as quick as you can. I will wait on the 
ladies.” 

With that. Poppet jumped over the counter, and the 
firm ’’walked leisurely round behind it. She was a digni- 
fied young lady, with freckles and red hair. She seemed to 
be very busy, and brought out her pretty stock of brackets 
without any more than the busiest glance at her customers’ 
faces. But her customers gave many sharp glances at hers. 

“ Something so familiar to me about that young lady ! ” 
mused the editor of the Early Visitor in an aside whisper. 
At the door, with her bracket under her arm, she turned and 
looked back, — but confusedly ; in the street she stopped to 
examine the sign. It was a handsome new sign, and read 

H. & J. JASPER. 

Furniture. 


^‘Jasper — Jasper,” said the editor, thoughtfully. “Do 
you remember that stupid little Miss Jasper you used to 
have at school ? That young lady reminds me of her amaz- 
ingly. I wonder if it can be — I mean to ask at the hotel.” 

“Jemima Jasper — yes,” said the clerk of the hotel, 
“ that ’s the name. Smart girl too. Very smart girl. Car- 
ried on her father’s business after he died. Keeps the old 


68 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


gentleman’s name on along with tier’s, too, — did you notice ? 
Curious thing ! Yes, that ’s a smart girl.” 

Did she support the family and educate that boy ? the 
editor would like to know. The clerk laughed a saucy clerk’s 
laugh. 

“ Should n’t wonder if she did ! Madam, folks say that 
girl is worth fifty thousand dollars if she ’s worth a cent ! ” 

Miss Jasper came out of the counting-room to watch the 
customers with the bracket walk up the street. She, too, 
looked confused. It seemed to her as if Icarus had been in 
the store. She felt suddenly very inky and stupid. The 
brackets on the counter turned mistily into a bulwark of 
‘‘ Elements,” and the two ladies in the street had a hazy air 
as if they had fallen into the Midsummer Night’s Dream. 

When they turned to look back at the sign, the furniture 
dealer suddenly smiled. She would have enjoyed calling 
them back, — would have enjoyed it very much. 

But Poppet and Carter were in sight with the lounges, and 
business was business, and could not wait, — no, not even 
for the editor of the Wednesday Evening Early Visitor. 

This was a printed story ; so, when Dili had finished, they 
cut the edges nicely, and, having trimmed it off to match the 
size of their book, Lill stitched it carefully in. There was a 
little difference in the type, and some in the regularity of the 
printing, but nobody thought of that. You got along so 
fast ! 


THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT WRITE. 


69 


Nobody thought, till it was all stitched in, of one thing. 

Why, it ’s a girls’ story ! ” said Nita. 

“We were going to have all ve girls at once, and all ve 
boys at ve same time,” objected Trotty. 

“ Well, it seemed to come,” said Nate. “ I liked it most 
as much as if it had been a boy.” 

“ Girls do seem to come,” remarked Trotty, pensively. 
“ I ’m glad I ain’t a girl. 

“ Besides,” said Trotty again, “ she’d no business to be a 
furniture-man, anyways.” 

“ She ’d all the business she ’d a mind to ! ” said Bill, 
stoutly. Nate thought so too. Nita did n’t say anything. 
She never did. Trotty felt that it was a tie-vote, and wisely 
said nothing more, except that he ’d rather have his luncheon 
now, and that his foot ached. 


70 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


CHAPTER YIII. 

THE THIRD STORY. 

T here was never any more talk about printing the boys’ 
stories all at once, and the girls’ all at the same 
time.” They took the stories just as Trotty wanted them, — 
for after all it was Trotty’s book, — and Trotty was quite as 
likely to want a girl as a boy, next time. So they were 
mixed along just as girls and boys are mixed along at home 
and at school and all through the world ; and that is the way, 
I think, to make a story-book, or anything else, as interesting 
as it ought to be. 

Trotty soon got tired of printing. It hurt his foot a little, 
but it hurt his temper a good deal more. Lill said he spelled 
so many words wrong. And the printer’s ink tasted so, and 
he never could find out how it got into his mouth. And then 
it seemed too much like being at school to have to think 
about your capitals and periods and all that. 

So he created himself foreman by a unanimous vote, and 
sat back in his sick-chair and read the stories aloud for his 
compositors to print. 

The third story he selected was this : — 


HOW JUNE FOUND MASSA LINKUM. 


71 


HOW JUNE FOUND MASSA LINKUM. 

UNE laid down her knives upon the scrubbing-board, and 



^ stole softly out into the yard. Madame Joilet was tak- 
ing a nap up stairs, and, for a few minutes at least, the coast 
seemed to be quite clear. 

Who was June ? and who was Madame Joilet ? 

June was a little girl who had lived in Richmond ever since 
she could remember, who had never been outside of the 
city boundaries, and who had a vague idea that the North lay 
just above the Chickahominy, and the Gulf of Mexico about 
a mile below the James. She could not tell A from Z, nor 
the figure 1 from 40 ; and whenever Madame Joilet made 
those funny little curves and dots and blots with pen and 
ink, in drawing up her bills to send in to the lodgers up 
stairs, June considered that she was moved thereto by 
witches. Her authority for this theory lay in a charming 
old woman across the way, who had one tooth, and wore a 
yellow cap, and used to tell her ghost stories sometimes in the 
evening. 

Somebody asked June once how old she was. 

“ ’Spect I ’s a hundred, — dunno,” she said gravely. Ex- 
actly how old she was nobody knew. She was not tall enough 
to be more than seven, but her face was like the face of a 
little old woman. It was a queer little face, with thick lips 
and low forehead, and great mournful eyes. There was 


72 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


something strange about these eyes. Whenever they looked 
at one, they seemed to cry right out, as if they had a voice. 
But no one in Richmond cared about that. Nobody cared 
about June at all. When she was unhappy no one asked 
what was the matter ; when she was hungry, or cold, or fright- 
ened Madame Joilet laughed at her, and when she was sick 
she beat her. If she broke a teacup, or spilled a mug of 
coffee she had her ears boxed, or was shut up in a terrible 
dark cellar, where the rats were as large as kittens. If she 
tried to sing a little in her sorrowful, smothered way, over her 
work, Madame Joilet shook her for making so much noise. 
When she stopped she scolded her for being sulky. Nothing 
that she could do ever happened to be right ; everything was 
sure to be wrong. She had not half enough to eat, nor half 
enough to wear. What was worse than that, she had nobody 
to kiss, and nobody to kiss her ; nobody to love her and pet 
her ; nobody in all the wide world to care whether she lived 
or died, except a half-starved kitten that lived in the wood- 
shed. For June was black, and a slave; and this French 
woman, Madame Joilet, was her mistress. 

Exactly what was the use of living under such circum- 
stances June never could clearly see. She cherished a secret 
notion that, if she could find a little grave all dug out some- 
where in a clover-field, she would creep in and hide there. 
Madame Joilet could not find her then. People who lived in 
graves were not supposed to be hungry ; and, if it were ever 
so cold, they never shivered. That they could not be beaten 


HOW JUNE FOUND MASSA LINKUM. 


73 


was a natural consequence, because there was so much earth 
between that you would n’t feel the stick. The only objec- 
tion would be leaving Hungry. Hungry was the kitten. 
June had named it so because it was black. She had an idea 
that everything black was hungry, in the nature of things. 

That there had been a war, June had gathered from old 
Creline, who told her the ghost stories. What it was all 
about she did not know. Madame Joilet said some terrible 
giants, called Yankees, were coming down to eat up all the 
little black girls in Richmond. Creline said that the Yankees 
were the Messiah’s people, and were coming to set the 
negroes free. Who the Messiah was June did not know ; 
but she had heard vague legends from Creline of old-time 
African princes, who lived in great free forests, and sailed 
on sparkling rivers in boats of painted bark, and she thought 
that he must be one of them. 

Now, this morning Creline had whispered mysteriously to 
June, as she went up the street to sell some eggs for Madame 
Joilet, that Massa Linkum was coming that very day. June 
knew nothing about Massa Linkum, and nothing about those 
grand, immortal words of his which had made every slave in 
Richmond free; it had never entered Madame Joilet’s plan 
that she should know. No one can tell, reasoned Madame, 
what notions the little nigger will get if she finds it out. She 
might even ask for wages, or take a notion to learn to read, 
or run away, or something. June saw no one ; she kept her 
prudently in the house. Tell her ? Non, non, impossible ! 

4 


74 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


But June had heard the beautiful news this morning, like 
all the rest; and June was glad, though she had not the 
slightest idea why. So, while her mistress was safely asleep 
up stairs, she had stolen out to watch for the wonderful sight, 
— the mysterious sight that every one was waiting to see. 



She was standing there on tiptoe on the fence, in her little 
ragged dress, with the black kitten in her arms, when a great 


HOW JUNE FOUND MASSA LINKUM. 


75 


crowd turned a corner, and tossed up a cloud of dust, and 
swept up the street. There were armed soldiers with glitter- 
ing uniforms, and there were flags flying, and merry voices 
shouting, and huzzas and blessings distinct upon the air. 
There were long lines of dusky faces upturned, and wet with 
happy tears. There were angry faces, too, scowling from win- 
dows, and lurking in dark corners. 

It swept on, and it swept up, and June stood still, and held 
her breath to look, and saw, in the midst of it all, a tall man 
dressed in black. He had a thin, white face, sad-eyed and 
kindly and quiet, and he was bowing and smiling to the 
people on either side. 

‘‘ God bress yer, Massa Linkum, God bress yer ! ” shouted 
the happy voices ; and then there was a chorus of wild hur- 
rahs, and June laughed outright for glee, and lifted up her 
little thin voice and cried, “ Bress yer, Massa Linkum ! with 
the rest, and knew no more than the kitty what she did it for. 

The great man turned, and saw June standing alone in 
the sunlight, the fresh wind blowing her ragged dress, her 
little black shoulders just reaching to the top of the fence, 
her wide-open, mournful eyes, and the kitten squeezed in her 
arms. And he looked right at her, 0, so kindly ! and gave 
her a smile all to herself, — one of his rare smiles, with a bit 
of a quiver in it, — and bowed, and was gone. 

Take me ’long wid yer, Massa Linkum, Massa Linkum ! ” 
called poor June, faintly. But no one heard her ; and the 
crowd swept on, and June’s voice broke into a cry, and the hot 


76 


tkotty’s wedding tour. 


tears came, and she laid her face down on Hungry to hide 
them. You see, in all her life, no one had ever looked so at 
poor June before. 

‘‘ June, June, come here ! ” called a sharp voice from the 
house. But June was sobbing so hard that she did not hear. 

‘‘ Venez ici^ — vite^ vite ! June ! Voild I The little nigger 
will be the death of me. She tears my heart. June, vite^ I 
say ! ” 

June started, and jumped down from the fence, and ran 
into the house with great frightened eyes. 

“ I jest did n’t mean to, noways, missus. I want to see 
Massa Linkum, an’ he look at me, an’ I done forgot ebery- 
ting. 0 missus, don’ beat me dis yere time, an’ I ’ll 
neber — ” 

But Madame Joilet interrupted her with a box on the ear, 
and dragged her up stairs. There was a terrible look on 
Madame’s face. Just what happened up stairs, I have not 
the heart to tell you. 

That night June was crouched, sobbing and bruised and 
bleeding, behind the kitchen stove, when Creline came in on 
an errand for her mistress. Madame Joilet was obliged to 
leave the room for a few moments, and the two were alone 
together. June crawled out from behind the stove. 

I see him, — I see Massa Linkum, Creline.” 

“ Be Lord bress him foreber ’n’ eber. Amen ! ” exclaimed 
Creline, fervently, throwing up her old thin hands. 

June crept a little nearer, and looked all around the room 
to see if the doors were shut. 


HOW JUNE FOUND MASS A LINKUM. 


77 


“ Creline, what ’s he done gone come down here fur ? Am 
he de Messiah ? ” 

“ Bress yer soul, chile ! don’ ye know better ’n dat ar ? ” 

“ Don’ know nuffin,” said June, sullenly. ‘‘ Neber knows 
nuffin ; ’spects I neber ’s gwine to. Can’ go out in de road 
to fine out, — she beat me. Can’ ask nuffin, — she jest gib 
me a push down cellar. 0 Creline, der ’s seek rats down dar 
now, — dar is ! ” 

“ Yer poor critter ! ” said Creline, with great contempt for 
her ignorance. Why, Massa Linkum, eberybody knows 
’bout he ! He ’s done gone made we free, — whole heap 
on we.” 

‘‘ Free ! ” echoed June, with puzzled eyes. 

‘‘ Laws, yes, chile ; ’pears like yer ’s drefful stupid. Yer 
don’ b’long — ” Creline lowered her voice to a mysterious 
whisper, and looked carefully at the closed door, — yer don’ 
b’long to Missus Jolly no more dan she b’long to you, an’ 
dat ’s de trufe now, ’case Massa Linkum say so, — God bress 
him ! ” 

Just then Madame Joilet came back. 

What ’s that you ’re talking about ? ” she said sharply. 

June was jes’ sayin’ what a heap she tink ob you, missus,” 
said Creline, with a grave face. 

June lay awake a long time that night, thinking about 
Massa Linkum, and the wonderful news Creline had brought, 
and wondering when Madame Joilet would tell her that she 
was free. 


78 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


But many days passed, and Madame said nothing about it. 
Creline’s son had left his master and gone North. Creline 
herself had asked and obtained scanty wages for her work. 
A little black boy across the street had been sentenced to re- 
ceive twenty-five lashes for some trifling fault, and they had 
just begun to beat him in the yard, when a Union offlcer 
stepped up and stopped them. A little girl, not a quarter of 
a mile away, whose name June had often heard, had just 
found her father, who had been sold away from her years 
ago, and had come into Richmond with the Yankee soldiers. 
But nothing had happened to June. Everything went on as 
in the old days before Massa Linkum came. She washed 
dishes, and scrubbed knives, and carried baskets of wood, so 
heavy that she tottered under their weight, and was scolded 
if she dropped so much as a shaving on the floor ; she swept 
the rooms with a broom three times as tall as she was, and 
had her ears boxed because she could not get the dust up 
with such tiny hands. She worked and scrubbed and ran on 
errands from morning to night, till her feet ached so that 
she cried out with the pain. She was whipped and scolded 
and threatened and frightened and shaken, just as she had 
been ever since she could remember. She was kept shut up 
like a prisoner in the house, with Madame Joilet’s cold gray 
eyes forever on her, and her sharp voice forever in her ear. 
And still not a word was said about Massa Linkum and the 
beautiful freedom he had given to all such as little June, and 
not a word did June dare to say. 


HOW JUNE FOUND MASSA LINKUM. 


79 


But June thought, Madame Joilet could not help that. 
If Madame had known just what June was thinking, she 
would have tried hard to help it. 

Well, so the days passed, and the weeks, and still Madame 
said not a word ; and still she whipped and scolded and 
shook, and June worked and cried, and nothing happened. 
But June had not done all her thinking for nothing. 

One night C reline was going by the house, when June 
called to her softly through the fence. 

Creline ! ” 

“ What ’s de matter ? ’’ said Creline, who was in a great 
hurry. 

“ I ’s gwine to fine Massa Linkum. Don’ yer tell no- 
body.” 

“ Laws a massy, what a young un dat ar chile is ! ” said 
Creline, thinking that June had just waked up from a dream, 
and forthwith forgetting all about her. 

Madame Joilet always locked June into her room, which 
was nothing but a closet with a window in it, and a heap of 
rags for a bed. On this particular night she turned the key 
as usual, and then went to her own room at the other end of 
the house, where she was soon soundly asleep. 

About eleven o’clock, when all the house was still, the 
window of June’s closet softly opened. There was a roofed 
door-way just underneath it, with an old grape-vine trellis 
running up one side of it. A little dark figure stepped out 
timidly on the narrow, steep roof, clinging with its hands to 


80 


TROTTY S WEDDING TOUR. 


keep its balance, and then down upon the trellis, which it be- 
gan to crawl slowly down. The old wood creaked and 
groaned and trembled, and the little figure trembled and 
stood still. If it should give way, and fall crashing to 
the ground ! 

She stood a minute looking down ; then she took a slow, 
careful step ; then another, and another, hand under hand 
upon the bars. The trellis creaked and shook and cracked, 
but it held on, and June held on, and dropped softly down, 
gasping and terrified at what she had done, all in a little 
heap on the grass below. 

She lay there a moment perfectly still. She could not 
catch her breath at first, and she trembled so that she could 
not move. 

Then she crept along on tiptoe to the wood-shed. She ran 
a great risk in opening the wood-shed door, for the hinges 
were rusty, and it creaked with a terrible noise. But Hungry 
was in there. She could not go without Hungry. She went 
in, and called in a faint whisper. The kitten knew her, dark 
as it was, and ran out from the wood-pile with a joyful mew, 
to rub itself against her dress. 

“ We ’s gwine to fine Massa Linkum, you an’ me, bof two 
togeder,” said June. 

‘‘ Purr ! pur-r-r ! ” said Hungry, as if she were quite con- 
tent ; and June took her up in her arms, and laughed 
softly. How happy they would be, she and Hungry ! and 
how Massa Linkum would smile and wonder when he saw 


HOW JUNE FOUND MASS A LINKUM. 


81 


them coming in! and how Madame Joilet would hunt and 
scold ! 

She went out of the wood-shed and out of the yard, hush- 
ing the soft laugh on her lips, and holding her breath as she 
passed under her mistress’s window. She had heard Creline 
say that Massa Linkum had gone back to the North ; so she 
walked up the street a little way, and then she turned aside 
into the vacant squares and unpaved roads, and so out into 
the fields, where no one could see her. 

It was very still and very dark. The great trees stood up 
like giants against the sky, and the wind howled hoarsely 
through them. It made June think of the blood-hounds that 
she had seen rushing with horrible yells to the swamps, 
where hunted slaves were hiding. 

“ I reckon ’t ain’t on’y little ways. Hungry,” she said 
with a shiver ; we ’ll git dar ’fore long. Don’ be ’fraid.” 

“ Purr ! pur-r-r ! ” said Hungry, nestling her head in 
warmly under June’s arm. 

“ ’Spect you lub me. Hungry, — ’spect you does ! ” 

And then June laughed out softly once more. What 
would Massa Linkum say to the kitty ? Had he ever seen 
such a kitty as that in all his life ? 

So she folded her arms tightly over Hungry’s soft fur, and 
trudged away into the woods. She began to sing a little as 
she walked, in that sorrowful, smothered way that made 
Madame Joilet angry. Ah, that was all over now ! There 
would be no more scolding and beating, no more tired days, 


82 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


no more terrible nights spent in the dark and lonely cellar, 
no more going to bed without her supper, and crying herself 
to sleep. Massa Linkum would never treat her so. She 
never once doubted, in that foolish little trusting heart of 
hers, that he would be glad to see her, and Hungry too. 
Why should she ? Was there any one in all the world who 
had looked so at poor little June ? 

So on and away, deep into the woods and swamps, she 
trudged cheerily ; and she sang low to Hungry, and Hungry 
purred to her. The night passed on and the stars grew pale, 
the woods deepened and thickened, the swamps were cold 
and wet, the brambles scratched her hands and feet. 

“It’s jes’ ober here little ways. Hungry,” — trying to 
laugh. “ We ’ll fine him purty soon. I ’s terrible tired an’ 
— sleepy. Hungry.” 

She sat down then on a heap of leaves to rest, and laid her 
head down upon her arm, and Hungry mewed a little, and 
curled up in her neck. The next she knew, the sun was 
shining. She jumped up frightened and puzzled, and then 
she remembered where she was, and began to think of break- 
fast. But there were no berries but the poisonous dog-wood, 
and nothing else to be seen but leaves and grass and bushes. 
Hungry snapped up a few grasshoppers, and looked longingly 
at an unattainable squirrel, that was flying from tree-top to 
tree-top ; then they went slowly on. 

About noon they came to a bit of a brook. June scooped 
up the water in her hands, and Hungry lapped it with her 


HOW JUNE FOUND MASSA LINKUM. 


83 


pink tongue. But there was no dinner to be found, and no 
sign of Massa Linkum ; the sun was like a great b^ll of fire 
above the tree-tops, and the child grew faint and weak. 

I did n’t ’spect it was so fur,” groaned poor June. 
‘‘ But don’ yer be ’feard now. Hungry. ’Pears like we ’ll 
fine him bery soon.” 

The sun went down, and the twilight came. No supper, 
and no sign of Massa Linkum yet. Nothing but the great 
forest and the swamps and the darkening shadows and the 
long, hungry night. June lay down once more on the damp 
ground where the poisonous snakes hid in the bushes, and 
hugged Hungry with her weak little arms, and tried to speak 
out bravely : “We ’ll fine him. Hungry, sure, to-morrer. 
He ’ll jes’ open de door an’ let us right in, he will ; an’ he ’ll 
hab breakfas’ all ready an’ waitin’ ; ’pears like he ’ll hab a 
dish ob milk up in de corner for you now, — tink o’ dat ar. 
Hungry ! ” and then the poor little voice that tried to be so 
brave broke down into a great sob. “ Ef I on’y jes’ had one 
little mouthful now. Hungry ! — on’y one ! ” 

So another night passed, and another morning came. A 
faint noise woke June from her uneasy sleep, when the sun 
was hardly up. It was Hungry, purring loudly at her ear. 
A plump young robin lay quivering between her paws. She 
was tossing it to and fro with curves and springs of delight. 
She laid the poor creature down by June’s face, looking 
proudly from June to it, saying as plainly as words could 
say, “ Here ’s a fine breakfast. I got it on purpose for you. 


84 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


Why don’t you eat, for pity’s sake ? There are plenty more 
where this came from ! ” 

But June turned away her eyes and moaned ; and Hungry, 
in great perplexity, made way with the robin herself. 

Presently June crawled feebly to her feet, and pushed on 
through the brambles. The kitten, purring in her arms, 
looked so happy and contented with her breakfast that the 
child cried out at the sight as if in sudden pain. 

0, I tought we ’d git dar ’fore now, an’ I tought he ’d 
jes’ be so glad to see us ! ” — and then presently, ‘‘ He jes’ 
look so kinder smilin’ right out ob his eyes. Hungry ! ” 

A bitter wind blew from the east that day, and before 
noon the rain was falling, dreary and chilly and sharp. It 
soaked June’s feet and ragged dress, and pelted in her face. 
The wind blew against her, and whirled about her, and 
tossed her to and fro, — she was such a little thing, and so 
weak now and faint. 

Just as the early twilight fell from the leaden sky, and the 
shadows began to skulk under the bushes, and the birds 
gathered to their nests with sleepy twitter, she tripped over 
a little stone, fell weakly to the ground, and lay still. She 
had not the strength to get to her feet again. 

But somehow June felt neither troubled nor afraid. She 
lay there with her face upturned to the pelting rain, watching 
it patter from leaf to leaf, listening to the chirp of the birds 
in the nests, listening to the crying of the wind. She liked 
the sound. She had a dim notion that it was like an old 


HOW JUNE FOUND MASSA LINKUM. 


85 


camp-meeting hymn that she had heard Creline sing some- 
times. She never understood the words, but the music came 
back like a dream. She wondered if Massa Linkum ever 
heard it. She thought he looked like it. She should like to 
lie there all night and listen to it ; and then in the morning 
they would go on and find him, — in the morning ; it would 
come very soon. 

The twilight deepened, and the night came on. The rain 
fell faster, and the sharp wind cried aloud. 

‘‘ It ’s — bery cold,” said June, sleepily, and turned her 
face over to hide it on the kitten’s warm, soft fur. “ Goo’ 
night. Hungry. We ’ll git dar to-morrer. We ’s mos’ dar, 
Hungry.” 

Hungry curled up close to her cold, wet cheek, — Hungry 
did not care how black it was, — with a happy, answering 
mew ; but June said nothing more. 

The rain fell faster, and the sharp wind cried aloud. The 
kitten woke from a nap, and purred for her to stir and 
speak ; but June said nothing more. 

Still the rain fell, and the wind cried ; and the long night 
and the storm and the darkness passed, and the morning 
came. 

Hungry stirred under June’s arm, and licked her face, and 
mewed piteously at her ear. But June’s arm lay still, and 
June said no word. 

Somewhere, in a land where there was never slave and 
never mistress, where there were no more hungry days and 


86 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


frightened nights, little June was laughing softly, and had 
found some one to love her at last. 

And so she did not find Massa Linkum after all ? 

Ah ! — who would have guessed it ? To that place where 
June had gone, where there are no masters and no slaves, he 
had gone before her. 

And don’t I suppose his was the first face she saw, as she 
passed through the storm and the night to that waiting, 
beautiful place ? And don’t I suppose he smiled as he had 
smiled before, and led her gently to that other Face, that 
thorn-crowned Face, of which poor little June had known 
nothing in all her life ? Of course I do. 

The foreman had some trouble in finishing the story of 
poor little June. He quite forgot to count his “ ems ” (which 
Max had taught him how to do) , or to threaten his composi- 
tors with a reduction of wages if they did not work faster. 
As for the compositors themselves, they neglected to strike 
for a half-hour law, which they were in the habit of doing 
every day, and did not call for “ copy ” once. 

When the story was finished, Nita tried to find her pocket- 
handkerchief, but had n’t any. She did n’t have very often. 
So Trotty lent her one of his. He had three, — little stiff 
brown wads jammed into different pockets, — and he passed 
them around the printing-office as if they had been refresh- 
ments. 


THE GREAT SEA-SERPENT. 


87 


CHAPTER IX. 


A FISH STORY. 


ERLE came over the next day, and the foreman turned 



J3_L his work over to Nita, who worked on woman’s wages ; 
she had seven pins a day where Nate had ten (the publishers 
of Trotty’s Book always paid in pins, and in advance) ; Nita 
bore her added labors as meekly as she bore everything else. 

Trotty did not print, either. Merle said it made her fingers 
inky. The story was about 


THE GREAT SEA-SERPENT. 


If you don’t believe it, go and ask the first Honorable 
Member of the Association for the Preservation of Cam- 
phorated Caterpillars, whom you may chance to meet. 
Though, why anybody should n’t believe it, is more than I 
can see. And, in fact, I never saw anybody who did n’t 
believe it. But then, I never saw the King of Siam ; and 
we all know that the King of Siam did not believe that there 
was ice in the world. “ Because,” said he, I cannot walk on 
water, and I never saw any water that could be walked upon.” 
So perhaps there are a plenty of people who do not believe in 
the Great Sea-Serpent of 1817. 


88 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


Now if you come across any of these people, when you 
have heard what I have to say, ask them if they have ever 
heard the story of the Princeton student who had been 
studying Berkeley ? And tell them that you don’t know 
what a Princeton student should study Berkeley for, but 
that you have understood that it was for the purpose of 
learning how Nothing was Anything but Ideas, and how 
Ideas were Anything ; and how when a man rode a horse to 
town, and was run away with, it was not the horse that ran 
away with him, but only an idea of a horse ; and how wlien he 
fell down stairs and bumped his head, he had no occasion 
to groan about it, since it was not his head which he had 
bumped, but only his idea of his head. And tell them how, 
one morning, the Princeton student had hot mush for break- 
fast ; and how he took one mouthful, immediately forgot his 
manners, and roared loudly. And how the Professor sternly 
asked him what was the matter. And how the Princeton 
student, with the tears in his eyes, and his tumbler of water 
at his mouth, said, ‘‘ Sir ! that was the hottest Idea I ever 
got hold of ! ” And tell them that if the Great Sea-Serpent 
is an Idea, it is the most Sea-Serpent-like Idea you ever got 
hold of. 

Sitting here at my window with me, this July morning, 
and looking Gloucester Harbor up and down, and over and 
across, you would not believe yourself that anything so 
horrible as a Sea-Serpent could get into it. You would see, 
away at your right, the town, as dim and delightful as a 


THE GREAT SEA-SERPENT. 


89 


morning dream. You would see the heights of the oppo- 
site shore as green as Eden, and you would see the dingy 
sails of two or three dozen idle little schooners, lighting 
up as if they were made of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, 
in the lifting mist ; and you would see the mist itseK, as 
if you saw a veil of burning lace thrown over the rocks, — 
to keep them from freckling, you wonder. And you would 
see strange colors on the rocks and in the stranded weeds, 
and strange boys splashing barefoot in the colors, and people 
fishing as if they fished for fancies, and sailing as if they 
sailed in their own thoughts, and bathing as if they bathed 
in sunbeams ; and more boys on the beach, walking on 
their heads (Barnum was here week before last), and more 
boys yet paddling crazy boats about after crazy drift-wood, 
and more boys besides (poor little fellows !) away out in the 
solemn black School Ship, down on its July trip, lying silent 
and guarded, out by the reef of Norman’s Woe. 

In fact, you would see so many boys, that the only natural 
thing about the Great Serpent would seem to be that he was 
discovered by a boy. 

It happened on an August morning, in the year 1817 ; and 
my only regret about that is, that my birthday came a little 
later in the month, or I might have seen it myself, before I 
undertook to tell you about it, and then where would the 
Society of Camphorated Caterpillars have been? 

It happened off the very rock on which I sit to write. It 
is an island, this rock, at least when the tide is in ; and there 


90 


TROTTY’S WEDDING TOUR. 


are wild roses on it, and a water-rat ; and the harbor throws 
out a round, green arm, and loops it in, roses, rat, and all ; 
and it is a very pleasant place ; I hardly believe in the Ser- 
pent myself when I get up here. 

But it really was an August morning, in the year 1817, 
and there really was a boy, and he came over after a real 
cow, who had wandered off this way, over the grass and 
through a little gate, — who knows but she saw the Great 
Serpent first, after all ? At any rate, here she was, and here 
the rock was, and is, and here the boy was, when the water 
just below my feet here stirred — it was a calm morning — 
and rippled and grew brown. 

“ I declare ! ” said the boy, “ what a tremendous spar ! ” 
And he called another boy. ‘‘ Let ’s have it ! ” 

‘‘ All right,” said boy No. 2. 

So they tried to stick it, and draw it in. But it behaved 
curiously for a spar. In the first place it wriggled. In the 
next place it did n’t. It had gone, vanished. It had pon- 
derously squirmed and was not. 

The boys did not draw it in. I think, on the whole, it was - 
just as well. 

That spar stayed in the harbor a fortnight, and the poorest 
fisherman on shore made no effort to draw it in to add to his 
winter’s fuel. 

The ‘‘spar” was seen by hundreds of people during its 
visit to Gloucester, and “ ten depositions,” says the “ His- 
tory ” of this enterprising town, “ were given in, all of them 


THE GREAT SEA-SERPENT. 


91 


agreeing as to the size, shape, and motion of this wonderful 
creature, as well as in less important particulars.” 

The great Sea-Serpent was estimated to be from seventy to 
one hundred feet in length ; the two ends of it could not be 
seen at once with Gloucester’s best telescope. It was about 
as large round as a half-barrel, and of a dark brown color. 
Its back was covered with singular bunches ; some said eight, 
some said twenty in number. The creature was said to have 
a head in appearance and size like a horse’s. It made a 
track in the water visible for half a mile. When on the sur- 
face, it seemed to move about a mile in four minutes ; but 
when underneath, judging by the motion of the water, it 
travelled at the fair rate of a mile in two minutes. It had 
a tongue like a harpoon, about two feet in length, which it 
darted out when disturbed. Sometimes it amused itself by 
playing in circles upon the face of the water. When it was 
tired of this hideous waltz, and wanted to go to the bottom, 
instead of diving or swimming down, or even turning to 
“ look before it leaped,” like most fish, it simply dropped ; 
sank like lead ; went all at once. 

On the 14th of August there came a little girl (she after- 
wards married the boy whose cow discovered the Serpent ; 
and, though I don’t suppose that was a matter of much interest 
to the Serpent, it may be of some to those young folks who are 
beginning — a very bad beginning! — to read novels) from over 
the opposite side of the harbor, where the hills are as green as 
Eden, into the dingy little town which looks like a dream 


92 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


from the rock with the roses and the rat on it. The little 
girl had heard nothing of the ‘‘ spar,” it so happened, and 
when she struck into a great crowd of silent people on 
Gloucester Beach she was puzzled enough. And when she 
saw on the water a little boat with men in it, and not thirty- 
feet from the boat a monster with a head like a horse’s, and 
a forked tongue, and brown bunches on his back, and a tail 
that seemed to stretch across the harbor, making as straight 
for shore as the tide, she was so frightened that she dropped 
on a stone by the edge of the crowd, and would have fainted, 
if she had been old enough to know how. For she had been 
reading stories, too, even in Gloucester, and even in 1817, 
and there was a story that she read once, and had never for- 
gotten, and never would. It was how Andromeda came down 
to the beach, and how the dragon came out of the sea, and 
how Andromeda would have been devoured (poor little 
thing!) by the dreadful creature, if it had not been for 
Perseus. 

Her mother said that story was not true. Now she knew 
better. There was the Dragon himself. She felt like An- 
dromeda from head to foot. Would Perseus find his way to 
Gloucester Beach ? She sat down on the stone and shut her 
eyes. She would not move. She dared not look. 

In a minute there was a horrible noise. I know all about 
it, for Andromeda’s daughter told me herself. 

‘‘ It ’s the Dragon ! ” thought Andromeda. 

“ It ’s the gun 1 ” said the crowd on the beach, who had 


THE GREAT SEA-SERPENT. 


93 


not been reading stories, and who had kept their eyes open, 
instead of sitting down to wait for Perseus. True enough, it 
was the gun. The men in the boat had shot the Dragon, and 
the noise echoed and re-echoed out to sea. “ He ’s hit ! ” 
cried the crowd. And so it seemed. “ He ’ll swamp the 
boat ! ” 

For a minute the crowd on shore thought it was all over 
with the daring marksmen ; and as for the marksmen them- 
selves, the ‘‘ History of Gloucester ” does not relate what they 
thought ! 

For a minute, the ugly creature made for shore, and made 
for the boat, still as straight as the tide. Within thirty feet 
of the boat he suddenly turned. He seemed to have forgot- 
ten both the shot and the boat. In the breakers that the 
bending of his huge body made, he whirled and put out to 
sea. 

So he seems to have been a very amiable Dragon, after all, 
and not to have had a sensitive disposition, either. And so 
the men in the boat put ashore, a trifle pale about the mouth, 
but too much disappointed, I suspect, at not having caught 
the Dragon, to thank him for not sending them and their 
boat and their gun to the bottom with a whisk of his mighty 
tail. And so Andromeda left her stone and her fright, and 
the golden mist came up the harbor, and she married Perseus, 
and never saw the Dragon more. 

The Dragon amused himself, however, for a while there- 
after, by racing up and down the harbor like a huge regatta. 


94 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


and finally slipped away, as all distinguished summer visitors 
will in time. 

It was said to have been seen at Long Island again, on the 
5th of October in that very year ; and two years after, the staid 
old town of Marblehead received a visit from him. After the 
departure of what Gloucester people call, by courtesy, in 
capitals, the GREAT Sea-Serpent, the town, not contented 
with its honors, claimed the arrival of two more. One was 
indeed, if we may credit the opinion of the Association for 
the Preservation of Camphorated Caterpillars, the young of 
this curious creature. It was found on Good Harbor Beach 
in a swamp, and was caught and killed by a farmer with a 
pitchfork. It was of a green color and about four feet long. 
The other was nothing but a rather large horse-mackerel. So 
easily the bean-stalk of a wonder scales the skies ! 

Old records tell us, more than once, of a sea-monster of the 
nature of a serpent. Penobscot Bay aspired to one in 1809. 
In 1689 the incredulous New-Englanders heard of the exist- 
ence of a ‘‘ sea-serpent or snake, that lay quoiled up like a 
cable on Cape Ann. A boat passing by, with English aboard, 
and two Indians, they would have shot the serpent, but the 
Indians dissuaded them, saying, that if he were not killed 
outright, they would all be in danger of their lives.” 

In testimony whereof, I refer you to that famous and use- 
ful volume, the History of Gloucester ” ; and if you had 
only been occupied with that, instead of reading novels, think 
how much trouble you would have saved me ! 


THE GKEAT SEA-SERPENT. 


95 


“ There ! ” said Lill, when they got through, “ that was a 
boy’s story, and you never heard a word of it, Trotty 
Tyrol ! ” 

“ 0 — well,” said Trotty, who had been cracking peanuts 
and giving Merle half all the time, I did n’t like it, I guess. 
I did n’t know it was a boy’s story, eiver.” 

‘‘ It was,” said Lill, a regular boy’s story. Anybody ’d 
say so. And that just shows ! ” 

‘‘ Shows what ? ” asked Merle. 

But Lill scornfully told her she could n’t understand, and 
that she was daubing her nutshells all around. 


96 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


CHAPTER X. 


ruby’s visitor. 


ERLE did not come the next day. She said she ’d 



iVL rather wait till Trotty was well enough to play out of 
doors. For a while after this, the stories went into the story- 
book smoothly enough, and nothing happened between times 
worth telling. 


RUBY’S VISITOR. 


Her father had gone to the village one night, and left her 
quite alone in that bit of a house ; it was really very small, 
— it did not seem much larger than a dog-kennel; but 
it was large enough for two people, especially if one were 
such an atom as Ruby. It was a very lonely house, too, for 
it stood half-way up a mountain, where the shadow of the pine 
forest was darkest, and the great white stretch of snow that 
sloped down through it lay still and untrodden, — still, except 
when the icicles clattered sharply down from the trees on it. 
Ruby could hear them often, when she sat alone ; she could 
hear the wind too, sobbing around the house as if its heart 
were broken, and then wailing off over miles of mountain 
solitude. Sometimes she could hear the chirp of a frightened 
bird in its nest, or the mournful cry of the whippoorwill over 


RUBYS VISITOR. 


97 


in the swamp. Once she heard the growl of a distant bear 
that had lost his way. 

But she never thought of such a thing as being afraid. 
Her father ‘found and shot the bear the next day, and it was 
the only one that had been seen on the mountain for years. 
As for the icicles and the wind and the whippoorwill, she 
had heard them ever since she could remember, and they did 
not disturb her in the least. On the contrary, she thought 
they were very pleasant company when her father was gone, 
and she used to sit at the window for hours together, listen- 
ing to them. 

But she had her playmates in-doors as well as out. Of 
these, her favorite was the fire. Now I do not believe there 
are many people who can build such a fire as Ruby could. 
She used to gather such piles of light, dry brushwood, and 
such branches of dead oak-leaves, which made the prettiest 
quivering shavings, and she had such fragrant pine-cones for 
her kindling-wood ! 

When the hearth was all blazing and crackling with a fire 
about as tall as she was, she used to sit down before it, and 
stretch out her hands with the fingers close together, so that 
she could see the beautiful, brilliant blood in them ; or take 
off her shoes and stockings, and put her pretty pink feet 
almost into the ashes to warm them ; or sit with her eyes very 
wide open, and look and look into the pile of blazing fagots, 
till she made herself think that it was some great city in 
flames, towers falling, steeples tottering, churches crashing, 

5 G 


98 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


and hundreds of houses in hundreds of streets turned to 
living fire. 

Or she would watch the lights and shadows chasing each 
other all over the little low room. Where they' flecked the 
ceiling, they painted rare fresco-work, that shifted and 
changed to some new pattern every moment ; where they 
quivered over the bare plaster of the walls, they hung them 
with tapestry drooping and rich with quaint devices, and glit- 
tering with embroidery of black and golden threads. Every 
piece of the old, well-worn furniture, — the huge pine bed- 
stead, and Ruby’s little couch in the corner behind the chintz 
curtain, the rocking-chair and the cricket and the rough 
table,* — all grew into the richest of foreign woods, with 
coverings of crimson and orange velvet, and the curtain 
waved itself into damask folds with jewelled fringes. As for 
the unpainted floor, that became the pavement of a palace, 
inlaid with ebony and gold. 

At least, so Ruby used to think, and night after night, 
when her father had gone to the village to sell his wood, or 
the rabbits and squirrels that he shot in the forest, she would 
fancy, all the evening long, that she was not Ruby at all, but 
some beautiful, happy Princess. 

Now how she came to be called Ruby I really do not know ; 
but, after thinking of the matter two whole nights and a day, 
I have arrived at the conclusion that it was probably because 
her cheeks were as red as the reddest gem, and as soft as the 
sweetest of June roses, and her lips like beads of coral. I 


kuby’s visitor. 


99 


presume they were made so on purpose to be bits of crimson 
lights for her hair and eyes, which were as black as a sum- 
mer’s night when the stars are hidden. 

On this evening of which I started to tell you, she built up 
her largest and brightest fire, — for it was a very cold even- 
ing, — looked a few minutes at the towers crashing down 
through the city, — watched for ^le frescos, and the tapes- 
tries, and the gold and ebony pavements to flicker and glow 
into their places, — put upon her forehead her mother’s chain 
of gold beads that was kept so carefully in the drawer, and 
that served her for a princess’s crown ; then she suddenly 
remembered another of her playfellows who would be in the 
room that night, and went to the window to look for it. 
Perhaps you will think it must have been a stupid com- 
panion, but I assure you that Ruby did not find it so. It 
was only the moonlight which had fallen silently in, and lay 
quite pale upon the floor. 

The moon itself, looking very large and very lonely, was 
bright above the tops of the pines, against the blue of a far, 
faint sky. Every branch of every tree was tipped and edged 
with silver ; all the foliage of the evergreens, and the dead 
leaves that had hung all winter shivering on their stems, 
flashed in the light like crystals ; the footpaths stretched 
on through the woods, arched overhead and glittering, 
winding away and away like interminable fairy corridors, 
and the snow, like a mirror, caught all the pearly lights 
with which the air was filled, and threw them back. Ruby 


L.ofC. 


100 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


thought that they were little rainbow kisses tossed up at the 
moon. 

She sat down on the floor right in a flood of light, with her 
hands folded, and her eyes looking up through the tree-tops, 
like a bit of a silver statue. And sitting so, she began to 
think — as Ruby loved to think when she was alone — about 
the rivers of molten pearl, and the diamond mountain, and 
the silver grass on silvered fields, and the trees with rainbows 
for blossoms and jewels for fruit, and the little ladies dressed 
in spun dew-drops, and — 0, So many things that might be 
in the moon ! If one could only find out for certain ! 

‘‘0 — I — really — why, what ’s that ? 0 dear me ! ” said 

Ruby at last, scrambling to her feet in a hurry. For some- 
thing or somebody was walking through the air, down upon 
the broadest of the moonbeams. Almost before she could 
draw a breath, it stood close upon the outside of the window, 
— something very large and very dark, but whether it was a 
man or an animal, Ruby could not decide. 

‘‘ 0, you can’t, you know,” she began, moving away a 
little, “ you can’t possibly get through the window : if 
you ’ll wait till father comes, maybe I ’ll let 'you in at the 
door.” 

But, to her unutterable surprise, the strange visitor at this 
came directly through the window without the slightest diffi- 
culty, or without making so much as a crack in the glass, and 
landed on the floor beside her. ' 

Oh ! — if you please won’t ! — why, I never did ! ” said 


ruby’s visitor. 


101 



Ruby, winking very hard, and looking around for a place to 
hide. But the stranger did not look in the least as if he had 
any thoughts of wringing her neck, or swallowing her whole, 
or doing her any harm whatever. He was only an old man, — 
a very odd old man, though. He was not so very much taller 
than Ruby ; he had exceedingly white hands, and wore white 
satin slippers. His trousers were bright corn-color, and he 
had long pink stockings that came up to his knees. He wore 
a coat of white broadcloth, with sleeves a yard wide, and 


102 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


silver fringe and buttons. His vest was of faint gray velvet, 
— whether it was faded or not, Ruby could not make out, — 
and on his head was a three-cornered cap of white tissue- 
paper, with a little black tassel on top of it. But by far the 
funniest thing about him was his face. It was as round as a 
dinner-plate, and perfectly white. His eyes were round, and 
his nose was round, and his mouth was round, and there was 
not a particle of color anywhere in them. His eyebrows and 
eyelashes, his hair, and his long, flowing beard, were like 
drifting snow. 

He stood looking very solemnly at Ruby ; and, after he had 
looked a minute without speaking, he made' her so low a 
bow, that the tassel on the tip of his tissue hat touched the 
ground. 

‘‘ Why — why, who are you ? ” stammered Ruby, with her 
eyes very wide open. 

“ Guess,” said he, setting his cap straight. 

“ Well, maybe,” began Ruby, trying very hard not to be 
frightened, — “ maybe you — you ’re one of the fairies that 
live in the rocks by the brook. I guess I saw you peekin’ 
out of a crack, last week.” 

“ No, you did n’t,” said the stranger ; “ guess again.” 

“ Or perhaps you ’re some sort — some sort of a — sort of 
a king, you know,” said Ruby, hesitating, and feeling of the 
gold beads on her forehead ; ‘‘ and you ’ve got a palace, — a 
real live one.” 

“ Guess again,” said the old gentleman. 


KUBY S VISITOR. 


103 


“ I should n’t wonder ” — Ruby began to look again for a 
place to bide — ‘‘if you might be a — a ghost ! ” 

The visitor burst into a laugh that echoed through the hut. 
“ You ’re a good Yankee ! You have n’t come any nearer 
than you are to the moon.” 

“ I ’m sorry I ’m so stupid,” said Ruby, humbly. “ Won’t 
you tell me ? ” 

“ 0, certainly, with the greatest pleasure, — certainly, cer- 
tainly, I ’m the Man in it.” 

“ The Man in what ? ” 

“ The Man in the Moon.” 

“ 0 my ! ” said Ruby. 

“ Yes, I am,” continued he, growing suddenly very sober. 
“ I have been ever since I can remember.” 

“You don’t say so ! ” Ruby drew a long breath. 

“ I do,” asserted the Man in the Moon, with an air of 
gentle melancholy. 

The crimson lights on Ruby’s cheeks fairly paled and 
glowed with curiosity. “ If you would n’t mind telling me, 
I should like so much to know, sir, what — what on earth 
you came down for ? ” 

“ Your fire.” 

“ My fire ! ” 

The old gentleman nodded. Ruby began to be afraid that 
he was going to make a bonfire of the house, or burn her at 
the stake. 

“ Cold ! ” said her visitor in an explanatory tone, shivering 


104 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


till every separate hair of his huge beard seemed to stand 
on end. 

‘‘ What ! don’t you have any fire up there, sir ? ” asked 
Ruby. 

“ Sat on a snow chair all last evening, and slept under one 
blanket of ice and a frost bedquilt ; caught the worst rheu- 
matism I ’ve had this season,” said the Man in the Moon, 
sighing. 

‘‘0, how dreadful ! and you don’t mean to say you saw my 
hre clear down here, — really ? ” 

The old gentleman nodded again. 

Ruby looked at the fire, then up through the window at the 
moon. I don’t see how you could see so far, to save your 
life ! Would n’t you like to come up and get warm, sir ? ” 

The old gentleman had been seized with such a shivering 
fit just then, that Ruby thought he would shiver himself to 
pieces ; which would not have been at all convenient, as she 
should not know what to do with the broken bits. She felt 
relieved, however, when he smiled the roundest of smiles out 
of his round mouth, and seated himself in the rocking-chair 
in front of the hearth, apparently with the greatest satis- 
faction. 

‘‘You — you are — really, you are very kind,” began her 
visitor, rubbing his hands. “ I am not a thin man,” he pro- 
ceeded, apparently giving himself no trouble about the want 
of connection between his sentences ; “ never was but once, 
and that was when I lived on putty and dew-drops for two 


ruby’s visitor. 


105 


years. We had a famine. I grew so small I got lost one day 
in my own coat ; could n’t find my way out for four hours 
and a half.” 

“ Dear me ! ” said Ruby. 

‘‘Yes, you are very kind not to laugh, nor anything of the 
sort,” he continued, with an absent air, — “very, indeed; 
and it is very good in you to let me warm myself at your 
fire, — very. On the whole, I think it is exceedingly good.” 

“ Why, I shouldn’t think of doing anything else,” said 
Ruby, who had quite recovered from her fright ; “ but do tell 
me what you eat in the moon, wlien it is n’t a famine ! ” 

The old man twirled his silver buttons, felt of the tassel 
on his cap, gave his head a little shake, and looked solemnly 
into the fire. “Depends on the season, — sand-cakes with 
hail-sauce are about as good as anything in their time. I 
have an excellent recipe for a sea-shell pudding ; and for 
breakfast, I take fried snowballs pretty much the year 
round.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Ruby. “ Well, I should like to know if you 
were n’t cold, taking such a long journey in that hat.” 

“0,” said the Man in the Moon, “I’m used to it ! ” 

“ But what do you wear it for ? ” persisted Ruby. 

At this he looked very wise, and stared into the fire again, 
but said nothing. Ruby did not dare to repeat the question ; 
so she stood with her eyes very black, looking at the funny, 
fat little figure and solemn white face beside her. 

“ Are there really little ladies up there,” she broke out at 


106 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


last, with silver dresses, and diamond mountains, and cas- 
tles with great pearl doors, and little princes riding white 
horses, and — ” 

No, ma’am,” interrupted the Man in the Moon, there 
is n’t anybody but me.” 

Don’t you get dreadfully tired of it ? ” said Ruby, begin- 
ning to feel very sorry for him. 

He gave a little short groan, and, taking a black silk hand- 
kerchief out of his pocket, began to wipe his eyes. The 
handkerchief was so large that it dragged on the floor, and 
covered him quite out of sight, till he began to feel in better 
spirits, when he folded it up sixteen times, and put it back in 
its place. 

Who hems your handkerchiefs ? ” asked Ruby, suddenly. 

“ Hem ’em myself.” 

“ Why, how did you learn to sew ? ” 

“ 0, I always knew how : first time I remember anything 
about myself, I was sitting on top of a thorn-tree, mending a 
pair of mittens.” 

“ You were ? ” 

‘‘ Yes,” said the old gentleman, with a meditative air, 
“ I was.” 

Seeing how much enjoyment he appeared to take from the 
heat of the fire. Ruby ^ suddenly bethought herself that he 
might also fancy some supper ; especially, poor man ! as his 
bill of fare in his own residence was so uninviting. So she 
stole away on tiptoe to the closet, and brought out the re- 


ruby’s visitor. 


107 


mains of her supper, — a brown-bread cake and a cup of 
goat’s milk. There was a bit of cold squirrel, too ; but that 
was saved for her father. She spread them before her visitor 
on the table. 

Would n’t you like some supper, sir ? It is n’t much ; but 
I think it must be better than what you have at home.” 

“ Much obliged,” he said, looking first at the bread, then 
at the milk, then at her, — ‘‘ very much indeed. Really, you 
are remarkably polite ; but I never allow myself to eat away 
from home ; it does n’t agree with my constitution. The last 
time I did it, — I’d gone on a visit to my first-cousin, who 
lives in the planet Jupiter, — it gave me St. Vitus’s dance, 
and I had to walk on my head for a week afterwards.” 

“Do tell ! ” exclaimed Ruby, who did catch some country 
expressions occasionally. “ Well, I ’m sure I would n’t have 
asked you, if I ’d known.” 

She put up the tea-things with a great clatter and hurry. 
Indeed, I am not sure but she was afraid the dyspeptic 
gentleman might be overcome by his appetite, and snatch a 
mouthful or two as she was carrying away the bread and 
milk. As for his exercising around the room on the tip of 
that tissue hat, though it might be a very interesting phe- 
nomenon, she thought she should, on the whole, prefer that 
he would not perform till her father came home. 

She had no more than fairly locked up her dishes and come 
back to take a seat on the cricket, when she was attracted by 
a strange behavior on the part of her guest. He had been 


108 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


watching her every step slie took about the room, and now 
he folded both his little fat hands, and, looking at her very 
hard, gave her a solemn wink. 

What do you want ? ” asked Ruby. 

Another wink ; but he said not a word. 

“I — I don’t exactly understand,” said Ruby. 

Wink — wink — wink. 

‘‘ Does the light hurt your eyes, sir ? ” 

Wink — wink; but not a syllable did he say. Ruby was 
now really frightened. Perhaps he was a cannibal, and was 
going to make his supper out of her, after all ! And, 0 dear ! 
to think of being eaten up alive ! And if she could only jump 
out of the window and run away I And what would her 
father think when he came home, and found nothing but her 
dress and shoes and a heap of little white bones ! 

Wink — wink — wink — wink. 

0 dear ! could n’t she climb up the chimney ? 

And then he opened his mouth. Ruby screamed aloud, 
but she did not dare to stir. 

‘‘ I say,” said the old man, ‘‘ you ’re a very polite young 
lady, — very polite ; quite a sweet voice ; and you ’re very 
good looking, too.” 

“ Dear no, sir,” said Ruby, drawing a long breath, and 
feeling very much relieved. 

“ What should you say,” continued the old gentleman, ‘‘ to 
coming home with me ? You might come back every Satur- 
day night and see your father, you know.” 


ruby’s visitor. 


109 


‘‘ 0 dear ! ” cried Ruby, turning pale, “ I could n’t think of 
it, — I could n’t possibly.” 

I “ 0, it ’s of no consequence,” replied the Man in the Moon, 
looking quite unconcerned, — “ none in the world ; it ’s just 
as well. I think I must be going now. There won’t be any- 
body to ring the nine-o’clock bell if I don’t.” And before 
Ruby could find words to speak, he had walked with a serious 
air to the window and disappeared. 

Ruby started, stared, and rubbed her eyes to look out after 
him. The forest was quite still ; the wind had cried itself to 
sleep ; and her father was just coming up the footpath that 
led to the door. 

Ruby, bewildered, looked up, — miles and miles away at the 
moon. The old gentleman’s solemn face was staring down 
out of it ; and if it had not been for the branch of a little toss- 
ing birch-tree that came in the way just then, she would have 
been sure — perfectly sure — that he winked at her. Though 
I have been told that her father, with the stupidity common 
to parents, teachers, older sisters, and all ignorant people, 
continues somewhat sceptical on that point to this day. 

It is reported, I believe, by a correspondent of a Patagonia 
paper, who found it in a Kamtschatkan exchange, which had 
it from the editor of a Boorioboola daily, who copied it from 
a popular magazine issued on the Mountains of the Moon, — 
where, of course, they ought to know, — that all this hap- 
pened about the time when the Man in the Moon was hunt- 
ing for a wife. 


tkotty’s wedding tour. 


lio 


CHAPTER XI. 


rye’s fritters. 


OT rye fritters, you understand ; quite the contrary ; 



though the two sound so much alike, how should you 
understand ? 

In fact, they were only Rye’s fritters, on account of Jockey. 

Fritters ” was Jockeyese for ‘‘ curls.” They happened in 
this way. 

Rye went to Boston. Now, Rye had been to Boston be- 
fore ; of course she had ; who has n’t ? Unless, indeed, I 
should except a little girl I picked up and piled into my sleigh 
the other day, who opened her mouth so wide when I touched 
up the Major and whizzed her down hill, that she quite lost 
her breath out of it, but gasped and said, — 

0 — 0 — 00 — ooh ! My soul ! Why, I never was inside 
along of a carriage before in all my life ! ” 

Rye, as I said, had been to Boston before, so she did not 
carry her mouth open ; neither did she say, ‘‘ My soul ! ” 
though rather, I think, because she had forgotten that she 
had a soul, than because it was n’t an advisable thing for a 
little girl to say. For Rye went to Boston “ on business.” 
She had been on pleasure trips of various kinds, such as to 
the shoemaker’s, the doctor’s, the dentist’s, etc., but she never 



RYE'S FPITTERS 




’vr 




wi-' 




I f 






av 


^ "I 


I! 


^Si' 


.^V 






'.^ » 


*' g 






:f<.v 










a 


'Ji 


1 1 g 




' **, 1 1 *i 


? . 


j ' 




\ 

V 


*'' > 






v*g 


■f 


ll 




k; r 

f';/ *. 


r 


’U-Z 


ft 




if#; 






I irt H Vi i t • \ J. 


'.V:< 


[** 




'I' -, 


^ ;v 


.»- » * ic . 


rAJ . • 




. ^ 


f * 


cr >• ,u * 

w V_ “i f i 


‘V: '■ 


[v/? n-il .'‘..A^^ 


Wv 


Vil 


It 


e 




’ • . ^'Tti 


r \. 3 v 


:n 




v-V 










* V.^. ’> 




* * 



jft'r ' .■ 4** 



• • V 


• '» ♦ . •?. 




.-s ,. 

. » 


•< 




:'■ ^;' : : • - ■ ;; 
M IBhC' - ■ >■•' :. • ^ V .. ‘'•*1; 

»a!f<Wj^v^V ^ ' - ' * ' lc*ltlCy - % 




if#*!* 

bpi&^.> 


i', -.i 


•i». 














eye’s fritters. 


Ill 


before had been on business. She had come down to buy a 
feather, — she and Prim and Jockey ; at least she had come 
for the feather, and Prim came because she came, and Jockey, 
— as nearly as I can make out. Jockey came for no reason 
in the world but because Rye particularly asked him to stay 
at home. 

Besides Prim and Jockey, there was, by the way. Aunt 
Banger. I neglected to mention her, because it is so per- 
fectly understood that when you take aunts, parents, and 
other burdens of like kind, to Boston with you, it is done 
entirely as a matter of courtesy. It happened, very un- 
fortunately, that Aunt Banger paid Rye’s and Jockey’s 
expenses (Prim was rich, and paid her own), so that Rye 
indeed , was constrained to be uncommonly polite to Aunt 
Banger. She felt it keenly, but she bore it well. “ I so 
dislike to be under objections to people ! ” she whispered 
to Prim. 

“ Objurgations, you mean,” corrected Prim. 

Rye went to Lowell’s, and bought her feather. At least, 
she went to Lowell’s, and Aunt Banger asked for feathers, 
and Rye looked them over, and Aunt Banger selected a gray 
one, and Rye selected a pink one, and Aunt Banger preferred 
the gray one, and Rye admired the pink one, and Aunt 
Banger said that her hat was gray, and this was a match, 
and Rye (who always did hate to be matched) said that gray 
made her look like a Guinea hen, — Jip Bond said so Christ- 
mas, — and Aunt Banger said that they were n’t buying 


112 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


feathers for Jip Bond ; and so Rye told Prim that she thought 
a great deal of Aunt Banger’s judgment, and, on the whole, 
she believed that she preferred the gray one. 

So Rye bought her feather with “ business ” despatch. 

“ Aunt Banger makes me a great deal of trouble to-day,” 
said Jockey, in a sour aside. ‘‘ I ’ve got to lug her way down 
to Shute’s to get me a cap ! ” 

And you girls may run around as you like for a while,” 
said Aunt Banger. “ Jockey and I will meet you at Cope- 
land’s at dinner-time. Take good care of your feather. 
Don’t get lost. Don’t buy candy. Don’t get your hair into 
your eyes, nor wet your feet. Mind the crossings. Look 
out for snow-slides. Take care — ” 

But Rye had taken care to be out of hearing by that time. 

“ Aunt Banger means well, but she ’s so inconsiderable 
about things ! ” said Rye to Prim, as they trotted up the 
shady side of Winter Street to keep away from the snow- 
slides. “ Now take money, for instance. ‘ Take care 3mu 
don’t spend more than twelve and a half cents,’ — that’ s 
what she was going to say. It ’s what she ’s always going to 
say. I ’d enough rather come to Boston with my mother ! ” 
Does your mother give you more than twelve and a half 
cents to spend ? ” asked Prim. 

‘‘ N — n — no,” said illogical Rye, “ I don’t know ’s she 
does. But she ’s so pretty ! ” 

Now Rye had the prettiest mother in the world ; and it is 
a great thing to have a pretty mother. At least. Rye thought 


rye’s fritters. 


113 


so. She liked to have her about, like a picture, and she liked 
to wear her pretty things for her, and hear her prettily say 
how pretty they were. Now that was the difference between 
her mother and Aunt Banger. Aunt Banger took to the 
“sensible” things. She tucked the pantalets, darned the 
stockings, made the night-dresses, settled the bills. The 
pretty mother embroidered and flounced and fluted and 
“ shaded ” and “ toned ” ; and Bye, as you might say, hung 
her up in a frame in the middle of her life, and let the light 
on her and kept the dust off. If she got over her depth in 
fractions, she went to Aunt Banger. When she was dress- 
ing for a party, she used her mother. 

But this has not so much to do with curls, as to admit of 
our spending any more time to talk it over, though there 
is a great deal that might be said about pretty mothers, — for 
and against, — as the little girls with pretty mothers will 
bear me witness. 

Rye and Prim went into Williams and Everett’s, and 
talked wisely at the pictures that they did n’t understand, 
and said nothing about those that they did ; they went into 
Osgood’s, to match fringes for Prim ; they went into Shreve 
and Stanwood’s, to price malachite, — for Prim, too,— and 
came away from the great glittering place thinking what 
very ill-used, ill-jewelled little girls they were, and stumbled 
over a bony little shoeless wretch selling molasses-candy at 
the door, and never stopped to tliink, — as the little girls in 
the stories generally do, and as a little girl, whether in a story 


114 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


or out of it, certainly should do, — that in a world where 
people sell molasses-candy in the winter without shoes, it 
matters little whether you can afford malachite or not, but 
said, what would have brought us to Rye’s “ fritters ” in the 
first place, if they had only said it a little earlier, — 

‘‘ I ’ve got an idea ! Let ’s go to Auguste’s ! ” Prim said 
it. Rye looked dazed. ‘‘ To have your hair crimped,” said 
Prim. ‘‘ I ’ve always wanted to try Auguste’s crimper.” 

“ Why don’t you go yourself ? ” asked Rye, doubtfully. 

Crimps will match your feather,” said Prim, with de- 
cision. 

“But my hair isn’t gray,” urged Rye. “And — don’t 
you suppose it would cost more than twelve and a half 
cents ? ” 

“ 0, 1 don’t know ! Jip Bond said you did do your hair so 
solemn ! ” 

“ That ’s Aunt Banger. She can’t bear crimps, except on 
herself. And besides, the hair-pins stick into you so nights. 
Besides, I burnt ’m off, in the lamp, the only time I tried, — 
a whole hair-pin full of hair short off.” 

“ It would be so becoming,” said Prim, dangerously, “ and 
please your mother so ! ” 

“ If you think mother would like it,” hesitated Rye. They 
were in Auguste’s by that time. Prim drew Rye past the 
French flowers and dolls, and all the pretty nonsense, into 
the hair-dresser’s room, and said to the hair-dresser, in her 
easy way (Prim always astonished and extinguished Rye), 


eye’s fritters. 


115 


“ Crimping ! ” and to Rye, in a whisper, “ I would n’t ask 
how much ; it sounds so countrified ! ” 

What could be worse than to be thought “ countrified ” ? 
Rye dropped into the great barber’s chair without a word, 
and Prim sat down on the haircloth sofa with a smile. 
“ Why not have it curled while you are about it ? ” she sug- 
gested, — “ all over, you know.” 

‘‘ It would be very fashionable and becoming, miss,” said 
the hair-dresser. ‘‘ Plain hair is out, quite.” 

“ Are you sure mother would like it ? ” said Rye, doubting 
but delighted. 

‘‘ Of all things ! Why, I spoke of it, you know, on her 
account,” said Prim, who really thought she did. 

We — ell,” said Rye, and gave herself up to happiness 
and the curlers. 

Rye had a pale, plain-pretty little face, ‘‘ all out ” perhaps, 
like her hair ; but everything about it matched^ like Aunt 
Banger’s gray feather. She looked at herself in the glass, - 
and her heart fluttered fast under the barber’s great apron 
which she was tied up in. What would her pretty mother — 
who always said it was such a pity that Jockey had the 
curls instead of Rye — say to her when she went walking 
in to-night ‘‘ all in ” the frizzly, foamy fashion ? Would n’t 
she have her photograph taken to-morrow ? Perhaps in por- 
celain? Or framed on the parlor wall? Or would Aunt 
Banger object, or Jockey be jealous? And would it be be- 
coming, after all ? 


116 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


The curlers — two of them — took hold of Rye as if she 
had been a basketful of ropes, and twisted her hair all up into 
a hundred little curl-papers. She felt convinced that tliey 
would twist her head off. She put her hand around, and felt 
of her neck to see if it were dislocated ; but, finding it quite 
sound, gathered courage to peep at herself in the glass. Such 
a sight ! 

“ You look like Medusa,” said Prim, who studied my- 
thology. 

‘‘ Who ’s he ? ” asked Rye. 

“ She was a lady who wore a nightcap of white snakes,” 
said Prim, promptly, suiting the information to the occasion. 
But that was just what Rye looked like. It made her fairly 
faint, she looked so ! 

‘‘I suppose you’ll — take ’em off?” she breathlessly 
asked. 

‘‘ Gracious me, miss ! ” said the curlers, and laughed till, 
indeed, they were in imminent danger of twisting her neck 
off. When they had finished laughing, they took hold of her 
with hot irons as if she had been actually a rye fritter, and 
fried her head on both sides. The irons sizzled and snapped. 
The curl-papers steamed. A hot breath crept in among the 
roots of her hair. 

“ They will set me on fire ! ” thought Rye, and turned as 
pale as her snaky nightcap. Even Prim was frightened, and 
began to wonder if they ought to have done this. When one 
of the curlers — busy watching a customer at the end of the 


rye’s fritters. 


117 


store, among the flowers — held her burning tongs a little 
too near a little too long, and Rye cried out in real pain, 
both the girls grew miserable. Rye sat and cried. Prim sat 
and looked. 

‘‘ Are n’t you ^most through ? ” asked Rye, faintly. 

‘‘ Yes, yes, miss, just through,” said the ready curlers ; 
but they were not just through at all. It took them an hour 
to twist and curl and scorch and untwist and recurl and comb 
and smooth poor little Rye. Tears of pain and fright dropped 
on her great apron. 

Never mind,” said Prim, soothingly. “ It will be so 
pretty when it ’s brushed out. And your mother ’ll be so 
surprised ! ” 

Rye revived and looked hopefully in the glass when the 
brushiiig-out began. One little pinched curl after another 
fell out, and flopped upon her forehead. They were not 
quite so becoming as she had expected, but she kept up her 
courage till the first quarter of her head was done. Then 
she saw Prim’s mouth twitch. 

‘‘You look like a griddle-cake ! ” said Prim. This was 
not as pleasant as miglit have been in Prim ; but Rye was 
funny ! 

Half the head, three quarters, the whole, stood finished 
at last. The curlers put away their brushes. Rye got out 
of her apron and stood solemnly up before the glass. It was 
horrible ! fairly horrible ! Rye turned around with a ghastly 
smile to Prim. 


118 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


Prim tried — she did try — to be sympathetic ; but she 
gave it up, and fell on the sofa in a convulsion of suffocated 
fun. 

0 Rye Robbins ! You look like a feather-duster ! You 
look like an elm-tree with the roots up ! You look like sago- 
pudding — and — horsehair stuffing — and — and — Aunt 
Banger ! ” 

This last was a touch too much. Rye sat down on the sofa 
(on top of her hat) and sobbed. 

Don't ! begged Prim. “They’re all looking at you! 
What will they think ? ” 

But Rye refused to be mortified or comforted. “ Go and 
ask how long it will last I ” she commanded with the authority 
of agony ; and Prim meekly obeyed. 

She came hack with a serious cast of countenance. 

“ Well ? ” 

“ A week.” 

“ A week ? ” 

Prim nodded silently. 

Rye stopped crying; she pulled her hat out from under 
her and put it on, in the calm of despair. Her poor pretty 
mother 1 That was the worst of it. That was worse than 
looking like Aunt Banger in a nightcap of white snakes for 
a whole long week ! What would her mother say ? 

“ Prim,” she said with solemnity, “ let us go. It might 
as well be done first as last. Come ! ” Prim came, quite 
humbled and silent. They walked grimly down the length 


rye’s fritters. 


119 


of the store. At the door they were politely detained by a 
watchful clerk, and politely informed that there was some- 
thing, he believed, in charge. Indeed, Rye, in her misery, 
had forgotten to pay him. She apologized, and asked his 
price. 

“ One dollar ! ” said the clerk, briskly. 

“ A dollar? ” repeated Rye, faintly. 

‘‘ Yes, miss,” said the clerk, cheerfully. 

Rye had just a dollar bill in her purse, — the only bill she 
had in any purse, — her mother’s Christmas present. She 
gave it to the clerk in silence, and in silence shut the door. 

‘‘ Well ? ” she said again, when she and Prim stood out on 
the crowded sidewalk. 

I know it ! ” said Prim. 

“ What shall I do with Aunt Banger ? ” 

‘‘ I ’d — I ’d — bang her !” exploded Prim in her distress, 
without the least intention of committing a pun. 

‘‘ And Jockey ! ” added Rye, in the anguish of her soul, as 
they went slowly over to Copeland’s. “ That boy will die 
before he ’ll get over this ! ” They lingered on Copeland’s 
steps, miserably. Rye could not muster courage to go in. 

Prim,” she said at last with energy, I tell you what. 
Lend me some money, and I ’ll go and buy a comb. Then 
we ’ll come back. You make for Aunt Banger. I ’ll make 
for the dressing-room. I ’ll stay there till I ’ve combed my- 
self out, if it ’s till next week. Perhaps she will be up stairs 
and won’t see me.” 


120 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


This was an inspiration ! The girls had been to Harris’s, 
and paid seventy-five cents for a comb, and were back on 
Copeland’s steps, in not much more time than it takes to 
tell it. 

They opened the door softly, and made,” as Rye had sug- 
gested, — she for the dressing-room. Prim for Aunt Banger. 
Rye, on her way, was greeted by an awful sound : — 

‘‘ I say ! Here w^e are ! I’m horrubile hungry waiting ! ” 

It was Jockey. Who else could it be ? Aunt Banger’s 
slower gaze followed Jockey’s snapping eyes. She just saw 
the little flowzy, fussy, dowdy head, that had been the little 
plain-pretty Lady Rye’s that morning, flying past, — but she 
saw it ; and so did Jockey. 

Rye went down into the dressing-room and jerked her head 
in the basin, and turned the Cochituate full and cold and 
long, all over the little baked and frizzly curls. Gasp- 
ing, drenched, and chilled, she took to her seventy-five 
cent comb at last, and combed out Monsieur Auguste’s dol- 
lar’s worth of -work, curl by curl, lock by lock, hard and 
patiently. 

She came to Aunt Banger, dripping and shivering and 
meek, her pretty hair half spoiled, wholly comical, but 
straight as a pump-handle. 

Of course the whole story came out. 

“ If only you loould n’t tell mother, I think I could bear 
it,” said Rye, meekly. 

Aunt Banger behaved beautifully. Even Prim owned that. 


rye’s fritters. 


121 


She promised not to tell Rye’s pretty mother, — not a word ; 
and she did n’t. 

Jockey promised, too: Sure ’s pop. Wouldn’t tell. 

Never. Not if he had six or five cents, he would n’t tell.” 

Rye gave him six or five cents ” (of Aunt Banger’s) to 
seal the compact. 

Look a here,” began this promising young gentleman, as 
soon as they were in the house that night. 

“ Hush, Jockey ! ” 

“ 0, I fergut. No, I won’t,” said Jockey, and fell to eat- 
ing his supper. But half-way down his mug of milk he 
paused thoughtfully. 

‘‘ Look a here, mother. Don’t you tell. Rye got her hair 
put into fritters in Bosting and paid a dollar for it ! ” 

Now this story has n’t a moral to its name, has it ? Ex- 
cept that it is true, every word of it ; and most true things 
have morals, if you look long enough and know how to find 
them. 

You can’t find any, unless it is that I dont like crimps ? 
Very likely ; and I am sure I don’t. 


122 


tkotty’s wedding tour. 


CHAPTER XII. 

JUST LIKE AUNT BANGER. 

‘‘ girls, it is n’t ! ” 

1 >1 Trim, in her superior manner, smiled, — for it was 
Trim who had just said, “ Lovely ! ” 

Rye did not smile ; she looked up half frightened, haK dis- 
appointed, from over her breadths of green silk, into Aunt 
Banger’s face. 

Aunt Banger was running breadths, too ; everybody was 
running breadths, excepting Trim, who had brought the last 
Bazar, and sat, in a heap of Demorests and Godeys, compar- 
ing notes, and criticising curtly. 

Rye, with her feet crossed, swam about at intervals on the 
floor, in billows of green silk, after floating spools, thimbles, 
needles (it has been estimated by a mathematical friend that 
Rye will lose, upon an average, six needles to five minutes’ 
sewing), and seized the opportunity, whenever she could, to 
hold her new dress up in the thick of the afternoon sunlight, 
‘‘ to see the emeralds come out.” 

Aunt Banger certainly had not meant the silk when she 
said, ‘‘ It is n’t”: in the first place, because she gave it to 
Rye herself ; in the next, because I doubt if there is a prettier 
piece of goods in the market. It looked like nothing in the 


JUST LIKE AUNT BANGER. 


128 


world but lighted waves, with a tiny, fine spray of sea-weed 
tossing over them, — all green, but the green that lives and 
quivers and crystallizes into gems, as Rye thought. 

It was like playing at a sea-bath to make it up. When it 
came to trimming. Rye grew perceptibly solemn. It was a 
fact familiar in the family history, that Aunt Banger objected 
to ruffles. 

‘‘ And frills, and plaits, and flounces, and everything that 
flies and quirks,” Rye had confided sadly to Trim. So Trim 
was over with Godey, and that superior smile. 

The pretty mother, — Rye’s, you will remember, — herself 
trimmed to the pretty waist, had said with a secret look of 
sympathy that was almost as sweet as ruffles to Rye’s little 
foolish heart, “ Don’t make Aunt Banger trouble, my dear,” 
and had gone away to take a nap, because dress-making made 
her head ache. 

So all was quiet on the Potomac, and, with Trim for reserve 
force. Rye had undertaken to fight it out on that line. 

Trim had her finger on a plate in Harper representing a 
young woman with a face like cream-candy and a dress 
like — 0 

‘‘ A grab-bag ! ” said Aunt Banger. ‘‘ A country charity- 
fair grab-bag. Nothing belongs to anything. Disjecta mem- 
bra I ” 

Latin,” whispered Rye to Trim, who had never studied it. 

‘‘ What does it mean ? ” 

‘‘ Hashed up,” said Rye, after a meditative silence. 


124 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


Aunt Banger laid the Bazar across her sharp knees, and 
sharply ran her sharp forefinger over the cream-faced lady. 

‘‘ A candy-pull ! ” Rye suggested, trying to laugli ; but she 
felt more like crying. Trim had said that ruffles were the 
thing” (this was last spring), and Trim always knew what 
was the “ thing ” better than Aunt Banger. 

There were ruffles enough on the creamy lady. Ruffles on 
the bottom of the skirt, ruffles on the middle of the skirt ; 
ruffles, in fact, all over the skirt; ruffles on the sack, 
around the edge, up the back, across the sleeves, up the front, 
around the collar ; a ruffle (in another plate, but the same 
unfortunate lady, in the same unfortunate suit, for her sack 
lay ruffling the sofa) on the waist of the dress, on the sleeves 
of the dress, on the sash of the dress, — 

“Ruffles, ruffles everywhere.” 

“ Or you might take off the upper two, and make a double 
skirt, — with a ruffle,” observed Trim, sweetly, by way of 
improvement. 

Now, girls ! ” repeated Aunt Banger, ‘‘ it is n’t pretty ! 
It is n’t, really. Not a bit of it.” She turned over the leaves 
of the fashion-books in her quick, relentless w^ay. There 
are n’t three dresses here I would n’t be ashamed to be seen 
in, — no, not even if I were Rye. What with your frills, and 
your perks, and your peaks, and your odds, and your ends, 
and your streamers, you 1870 girls look more like a little set 
of poll-parrots at a monkey-show ” (Aunt Banger was in too 
much of a hurry to attend to the remarkable zoological con- 


JUST LIKE AUNT BANGER. 


125 


struction of her sentence) “ than you do like creatures of re- 
fined sense. I say refined sense. Common sense I leave out 
of the reckoning altogether.’’ 

“ But we must be in the fashion,” pleaded Trim, as Aunt 
Banger paused to catch her breath. 

“ I ’d rather sew myself into a rag-bag, than go round look- 
ing as if I came out of the ark !” said Rye, hotly. She felt 
her ruffles rolling away over the billows of breadths. She 
had begun in her mind with the modest number of five. If 
she asked for three now, she knew that she should do it in 
the teeth of Fate. 

‘‘ Not to speak of the money,” proceeded Aunt Banger 
(when she at once fairly begun it was next to impossible to 
stop her), — “not to say one syllable of the money — ten, 
twelve, fifteen, twenty, thirty, nobody knows how many more 
dollars, but those that have got to settle the Lord’s and the 
dress-maker’s bills for it — for work and material of trimming 
a single dress, and the Indians starving to death on Lake 
Superior.” 

“ What have the Indians to do with it ? ” put in Trim with 
an air of high personal culture. 

“ Not to say a word of Indians,” continued the old lady, 
“ nor any other folks that can’t afford ruffles, nor the wicked, 
awful waste, nor the Last Trump, nor anything but the pretty 
of it: it isnH pretty! These rigs are not in taste ^ girls; 
they ’re not ladylike ; they ’re not neat ; they ’re not grace- 
ful by any laws of God or man. There is n’t an artist in the 


126 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


country would n’t tell you, that when you walk down town 
in that plaid suit of yours, Trim Dash, you cut a ridiculous 
figure. A ridiculous figure ! There ! Now I ’ve had my say, 
do what you like with your dress. Rye Robbins ; but send 
home Trim and Godey, before you decide.” 

“ But one must trim a skirt,” laughed Trim, by no means 
offended, though by no means convinced. 

‘‘ A short skirt. Perhaps. Not necessary. I don’t want 
Rye to look ugly. I want to make her just as pretty as 
I can. She knows that.” 

Yes,” assented Rye, uncertainly ; the ruffles had all 
slipped off on the green tide, now. 

“ What would you do. Aunt Banger, if you ivere we, you 
know ? ” This question came thoughtfully, after a pause. 

‘‘ I would n’t flop round said Aunt Banger, promptly. 
“ I ’d braid, bind, fold, contrive. I ’d have too much vanity 
not to look heavy and rich and uncrumpled and in place, and 
where I belonged. I ’d as soon wear a meal-bag, for instance, 
tied on behind me as that sash of Trim’s. I ’d look flnished^ 
not upholstered. Superfluous ornament is ten times worse 
than none at all. Instead of trimming myself wherever I 
could, I ’d trim only just where I could n’t help it. Ways ? 
I ’d make ways ! ” 

“ But what ’s the use for Prim and me, you see, to make a 
way ? Nobody else would set foot in it.” 

Some wealthy Catholic ladies in Paris,” said Aunt Banger 
with her eyes on the ceiling, “ have formed a society for re- 


JUST LIKE AUNT BANGER. 


127 


ducing, by solemn vows, their expenditure in dress to a fixed 
and very moderate sum. All the pin-money they save by the 
means goes to the Pope.” 

‘‘ Oh ! ” said Rye, blankly. If she had not been a little 
Protestant Yankee girl, who did not even know what ‘‘ pin- 
money ” meant, to say nothing of never having owned but 
three dollars and sixty cents in her life (and that she spent 
on skates), she might have felt more instructed by Aunt 
Banger’s illustration. 

“ When I was fourteen years old,” said Aunt Banger again 
to the ceiling, leg-o’-mutton sleeves came in. Now your 
Aunt Polly Maria and I did n’t like leg-o’-mutton sleeves. 
‘ When I turn Second Adventist and get ready to fly, I ’ll 
wear them, not before,’ said Polly Maria. ‘ Exactly ! ’ 
said I. But we ’ve no more mind to be stared at for not 
knowing enough to know the fashions than you have. Trim 
Dash. What do we do ? We go round with a paper,” said 
Aunt Banger, solemnly. 

“ Go round with a paper ! ” 

Polly Maria drew a leg-o’-mutton on it, and I carried it 
round. There were just twenty-five girls in that town signed 
it, and they never wore a leg-o’-mutton sleeve, as far as I 
know, till the day they died. So there was a crowd of us, 
and who cared ? It was the leg-o’-muttons that got stared 
at, I can tell you ! ” 

‘‘ Dear me ! ” said Rye, “ I did n’t know anybody ever 
really did that. I should think it would take a great deal of 
— of — presence of mind.” 


128 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


Rje brought the last three words out dubiously. 

‘‘ Any dozen girls in a town, who would make up their 
minds that belts were prettier than sashes, or folds in better 
taste than frills, or comfort of more importance than com- 
plexion, or that dress-goods should be nicer than their trim- 
mings, or that a pretty thing is better to look at than an ugly 
one, or a sensible thing better to do than a foolish one, — 
might set the fashion for a region. But I suppose you and 
Trim would die in the house first ! ” 

And I don’t know but they would. 


THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 


129 


CHAPTEK XIII. 

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 

I AM fourteen years old, and Jill is twelve and a quarter. 

Jill is my brother. That is n’t his name, you know ; his 
name is Timothy, and mine is George Zacharias ; but they ’ve 
always called us Jack and Jill. I ’m sure I don’t see why. 
If we’d had much water to carry — but it isn’t a well at 
our house, it ’s pipes ; and we never broke our heads on 
hills, or anything of that kind ; the most I ever broke was a 
toe-joint, and it was splintered up, besides the gash in Jill’s 
neck from coasting. 

But I don’t think you often understand about names. 
There ’s Maher-shalal-hash-baz, for instance. We had that at 
Sunday school last Sunday. I ’m glad I was n’t Isaiah’s boy. 

Well, Jill and I had an invitation down to Aunt John’s 
this summer, and that was how we happened to be there. 
It ’s a great thing to have an invitation to Aunt John’s. We 
don’t go visiting in our family without invitations ; I mean 
if we ’re relations. We like it better. Then they ’re glad to 
see you, and the girl is n’t sick, and there ’s berry-cake for 
supper, and you have the spare room, and like as not maple- 
syrup on your flapjacks. Once I had broiled chicken for 
breakfast three times a week at Cousin Palmer’s. 

6* I 


130 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


Aunt John can’t afford chicken unless it ’s Sundays, be- 
cause her chickens are ’most all guinea-hens and one turkey. 
But I ’d rather go to Aunt John’s than anywhere else in this 
world. When I was a little fellow I used to think I ’d rather 
go to Aunt John’s than to go to heaven. But I never dared to 
tell. But when I had the scarlet-fever down there, I let it 
out some way to Aunt John, and she never scolded a bit. I 
thought she cried, but I never was sure, because she was 
just digging out the guava-jelly with a teaspoon. 

You could n’t tell what it is about going to Aunt John’s. 
It is n’t so much the maple-syrup. Nor the four-o’clock 
dinner Sundays, and the crisp on the mashed potato. I don’t 
tliink it ’s the barn nor the tool-house ; it is n’t all the old 
carryall out under the butternut-tree ; Aunt John leaves that 
carryall there yet, though it ’s just a smash from the wind 
and weather and us boys, because Jill says he ’d feel home- 
sick not to see it ; and she could n’t even play go for the doc- 
tor in it, it ’s such a smash. 

Aunt John takes photographs and tintypes. Most boys 
think it ’s funny for a lady to take tintypes, but Jill and I 
don’t. She always has. At least, uncle did, and she helped, 
and so he died, and she kept right along. She has a saloon 
next the post-office, and her girl gets dinner, and she comes 
home at twelve, to sit round in the shady places on the steps 
with Jill and me, and guess what we are going to have for 
dessert. 

I don’t know but it ’s the saloon that ’s a good deal of it at 


THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 


131 


Aunt John’s. You ouglit to see the album Jill and I ’ve got, 
of just pictures of ourselves every way you can imagine, — 
with two heads ; and three ; and upside-down ; and back side 
front ; and eating flapjacks ; and out fishing ; and the turkey 
for a frontispiece, besides. 

It takes me a great deal longer than I thought it would, to 
get to what I set out to say about how we went to Aunt 
John’s this time. 

She ’d invited us to come on the 12th of August. It takes 
all day to get to Aunt John’s. She lives at Little River, in 
New Hampshire, away up. You have to wait at South 
Lawrence in a poky little depot, and you have to change cars 
at Dover, and you get some played out. At least, I don’t so 
much, but Jill does ; so we bought a paper. I bought the 
paper, because he bought the pop-corn and the mustiest jum- 
ble I ever ate. But I got some prize-candy, when it came my 
turn, and a fish-hook in it ; I should n’t have noticed the fish- 
hook, if I had n’t come so near swallowing it. 

But so we bought the paper, and Jill sat up and read it ; 
he tipped his cap on the back of his head, and sat up like the 
man in front of us with the big neck and the long mustache. 
I ’d have punched a pin in him to see him jump, if he had sat 
up so long, but he did n’t. When he ’d sat a minute and 
read along : — 

“ Look here ! said he. 

“ Look where ? ” said I. 

Why, there ’s going to be a comet to-night,’^ said Jill. 


132 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


“ Who cares ? ” said I. 

Jill laid down the paper, and crunched a pop-corn all 
up before he answered that. Then said he : ‘‘I don’t see 
why father never told us. I s’pose he thought we ’d be 
frightened, or something. Why, s’posing the world did 
come to an end ? That ’s what this paper says. ‘ It is pre- 
dicted — it is ’ — yes, where ’s my place ? 0,1 see — ‘ pre- 

dicted by learned men that a comet will come into con — 
conjunction with our plant ’ — no — ‘ our planet this night. 
Whether we shall be plunged into a wild vortex of angry 
space, or suffocated with n-o-x — noxious gases, or scorched 
to a helpless crisp, or blasted at once into eternal an- 
ni-hi — ’ ” 

A gust of wind grabbed the paper out of Jill’s hand just 
then, and took it out the window ; so I never read the rest. 
I looked it up in my definitions when I got home, and I 
thought that word must have been annihilation. 

“ Father is n’t a goose,” said I. “ He did n’t think it 
worth mentioning. He is n’t going to be afraid of a comet 
at his time of life ! ” 

So we did n’t think anything more about the comet till we 
got to Aunt John’s. So when we got to Aunt John’s, there 
was company there, after all. It was n’t a relation, only an 
old schoolmate, and her name was Miss Togy ; so she ’d come 
without an invitation, and had to have the spare room because 
she was a lady. That was how Jill and I came to be put 
into the little chimney bedroom. 


THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 


133 


And so Jill went out to the carryall, first thing ; but I 
went over to the saloon, before supper, and I took the yellow 
cat and the baker’s boy before supper, besides Miss Togy 
standing on her head. I didn’t like her much for being 
there, because Aunt John had to pay so much attention 
to her. 

So we had an 0. K. time till we went to bed. 

They talked about the comet too, at supper, but I did n’t 
mind ; and Miss Togy said she ’d been nervous about it all 
day ; but Jill said women always were. 

At last we went to bed in the little chimney bedroom. We 
went early ; it was dark early. Aunt John said from a storm 
somewhere about ; and we ’d been in the cars all day. 

That little chimney bedroom is the funniest place you ever 
slept in. I never slept in one so funny, unless it was the 
night we had missionaries, and I slept under the attic stairs, 
and the mouse ran up my shirt-sleeve. There ’d been a 
chimney once, and it ran up by the window, and grandfather 
had it taken away. It was a big, old, o/c?-fashioned chimney, 
and it left the funniest little gouge in the room. So the bed 
went in as nice as could be. We could n’t see much but tlie 
ceiling when we got to bed. 

‘‘ It ’s pretty dark,” said Jill. “ I should n’t wonder if it 
did blow up a little. Would n’t it scare — Miss — Bogy ! ” 

“ Togy,” said I. 

“ Well, To — ” said Jill ; and right in the middle of it he 
went off as sound as a weasel. 


134 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


The next thing I can remember is a horrible noise. It was 
a horrible noise. I can’t think of but one thing in this world 
it was like, and that is n’t in this world so much. I mean 
the Last Trumpet with the Angel blowing as he blows in my 
old Primer. 

But the next thing I remember is hearing Jill sit up in 
bed, — for I could n’t see him, it was so dark, — and his pip- 
ing out the other half of Miss Togy’s name, just as he had 
left it when he went to sleep : — 

“ Gy ! Bo-^7/ ! ^o-gy ! Soa-A;y I 0,” said Jill, coming 

to at last, “ I thought I was up and tried for heading a Pho- 
tographer’s Strike, and going to be hung unless I could rhyme 
Miss Logy’s name and make sense all the way through to Z ! 
That red pincushion mother keeps in the spare chamber at 
home was judge. Why ! what ’s up ? ” 

I was up, but I could n’t tell what else was, for a little 
while. I went to the window. It was as dark as a great rat- 
hole out-of-doors, all but a streak of lightning and an awful 
thunder, as if the world were cracking all to pieces. I knew 
the cherry-trees in the garden must be shaking and tossing, 
for the wind blew so it took my breath away ; but I could not 
see them, not a speck of them. Then the lightning lightened, 
and I saw the old carryall under the butternut, and then I 
saw nothing more. 

“ Come to bed ! ” shouted Jill ; “ you ’ll get struck, and 
that ’ll kill me ! ” 

I went back to bed, for I did n’t know what else to do. 


THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 


135 


We crawled down under the clothes and covered ourselves 
all up. 

“ W -would — you — call Aunt — John ? ” asked Jill. He 
was ’most choked. I came up for air. 

“ No,” said I, ‘‘ I don’t think I ’d call Aunt John.” 

I should have liked to call Aunt John by that time ; but 
then I should have felt ashamed. 

“ I s’pose she ’s got her hands full looking after Miss 
Croaky, any way,” chattered Jill, bobbing up for a breath, 
and then bobbing under. 

By that time, the storm was the worst storm I had ever 
seen in my life. Jill said he thought it would n’t have 
seemed so bad if we had n’t been in the little chimney bed- 
room. I thought so too. It was so dark in the gouge where 
the bed stood. Then I thought the ceiling came down over 
our heads like a coffin-lid. I said so to Jill. He said he ’d 
kick me out of bed if I said it again. 

And so it grew worse and worse. Thunder, lightning, and 
wind ! Wind, lightning, and thunder ! Rain and roar and 
awfulness ! I don’t know how to tell how awful it was. 

All the house shook as if it had a fit. And our bed rattled 
up against the wall. And there was hail, and it beat the 
window in. It cut me on the face when I bobbed up to look. 
It felt like a great sword. 

In the middle of the biggest peal we ’d had yet, up jumped 
Jill. ‘‘ Jack ! ” said he, ‘‘ that comet ! ” I ’d never thought 
of the comet till that minute. I felt an ugly feeling, and a 


136 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


little cold all over. ‘‘ It is the comet,” said Jill. ‘‘ It is the 
Day of Judgment, Jack.” 

Jill said this in a funny way, just an every-day way, as if 
we ’d been playing in the saloon, and he ’d told me to move 
the camera a little. I asked him afterwards why he did n’t 
liowl. He said he was too scared. 

Then it happened. It happened so fast I did n’t even have 
time to get my head out from under the clothes. 

First there was a creak. Then a crash. Then we felt a 
shake, as if a giant pushed his shoulder up through the floor 
and shoved us. Then we doubled up. And then we began 
to fall. The floor opened, and we went through. I heard 
the bedpost hit as we scraped by. Then I knew I was fall- 
ing. Then I felt another crash. Then we began to fall again. 
Then we bumped down hard. After that we stopped falling. 
I lay still. My heels were doubled up over my head. I 
thought my neck would break. But I never dared to stir, I 
thought that I was dead. 

By and by I wondered if Jill were not dead too. So I un- 
doubted my neck a little, and found some air. It seemed to 
be just as uncomfortable to double up your neck, and to 
breathe without air, when you were dead, as it was when you 
were n’t. 

So I called out, softly, Jill ! ” No answer. Jill ” Not 
a sound. “0 — Jill!” 

But he did not speak. So then I knew Jill must be dead, 
at any rate. I could n’t help wondering why he was so much 


THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 


137 


deader than 1 that he could n’t answer a fellow. Pretty soon 
I heard a rustling noise around my feet. Then a weak, sick 
kind of a noise, — just the noise I always had supposed ghosts 
would make if they talked. 

‘^Jack?” 

‘‘ Is that you, Jill ? ” 

‘‘ I — suppose — so. Is it you. Jack ? ” 

“ Yes. Are you dead ? ” 

“ I don’t know. Are you ? ” 

“ I guess I must he if you are. How awfully dark it is ! ” 
Awfully dark ! It must have been the comet ! ” 

“Yes. Did you get much hurt ? ” 

“ Not much. I say — J ack ? ” 

“ What?” 

“ If it is the Judgment Day — ” Jill broke up. So did I. 
We lay as still as we could. If it were the Judgment 
Day — 

I thought of so many things. I remembered all the lies I 
ever told. I could n’t help thinking how I had n’t said my 
prayers since mother had the typhoid fever. I don’t believe 
I ever cheated at a game of marbles in my life, that I did n’t 
think about it then. And the queerest thing was about a 
Baldwin apple I took from a fellow once, — he was a little 
chap — and lame; had crooked legs; poor, too. He left it 
in his satchel, — I could n’t seem to get over that Baldwin 
apple, to think I took it. 

“ Jill ! ” said I. 


138 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


“ 0 dear me ! ” sobbed Jill. 

We were both crying by that time. I don’t feel ashamed 
to own up, as far as 7 ’m concerned. 

“ If I ’d known,” said I, that the Day of Judgment was 
coming on the 12th of August, I would n’t have been so 
mean about that jack-knife of yours with the notch in it ! ” 
And I would n’t have eaten up your luncheon that day 
last winter when I got mad at you,” said Jill. 

“ Nor we would n’t have cheated mother about smoking 
vacations,” said I. 

“ I ’d never have played with the Bailey boys out behind 
the barn ! ” said Jill. 

‘‘ I wonder where the comet went to,” said I. 

‘‘ ‘ Whether we shall be plunged,’ ” quoted Jill, in a horri- 
ble whisper, from that dreadful newspaper, — ‘‘‘shall be 
plunged into a wild vortex of angry space — or suffocated 
with noxious gases — or scorched to a helpless crisp, or 
blasted — ’ ” 

“ When do you suppose they ’ll come after us ? ” I inter- 
rupted Jill. 

That very minute somebody came. We heard a step, and 
then another. Then a heavy bang. Jill howled out a little. 
I did n’t, for I was thinking how the cellar door banged like 
that. 

Then came a voice, — an awful, hoarse, and trembling voice, 
as ever you ’d want to hear. “ George Zacharias ! ” 

Then I knew it must be the Judgment Day, and that the 


THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 


139 


Angel had me up in court to answer him. For you could n’t 
expect an angel to call you Jack when you were dead. 

“ George Zacharias ! ” said the awful voice again. I did n’t 
know what else to do, I was so frightened, so I just hollered 
out, ‘‘ Here ! ” as I do at school. 

“ Timothy ! ” came the voice once more. 

Now Jill had a bright idea. Up he shouted, Absent ! ” 
at the top of his lungs. 

“ George ! Jack ! Jill ! Where are you ? Are you 
killed ? 0, wait a minute, and I ’ll bring a light ! ” 

This did n’t sound so much like Judgment Day as it did 
like Aunt John. I began to feel better. So did Jill. I sat 
up. So did he. It was n’t a minute before the light came 
into sight, — and something that looked like the cellar door, 
the cellar stairs, and Aunt John’s spotted wrapper, and Miss 
Togy in a nightgown, away behind, as white as a ghost. 
Aunt John held the light above her head, and looked down. 
She had her hand above her eyes to shield them. I don’t be- 
lieve I shall ever see an angel that will make me feel any 
better to look at than Aunt John did that night. 

0 you blessed boys ! ” said Aunt John, — she was laugh- 
ing and crying together. “To think that you should have 
fallen through the old chimney to the cellar floor, and be sit- 
ting there alive in such a funny heap as that ! ” 

That was just what we had done. The old flooring — not 
very secure — had given way in the storm; and we’d gone 


140 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


down through two stories, where the chimney ought to have 
been,, jam! into the cellar on the coal-heap, and all as good 
as ever, except the bedstead ! 

And if it had n’t been true upon my word and honor, I 
would n’t have told it. 


MORE WAYS THAN ONE. 


141 


CHAPTER XIY. 

MORE WAYS THAN ONE. 

B EEB put the baby into a clothes-bag and hung him up 
in the closet. 

This, you see, was a change, both for herself and the baby. 
The baby found the novelty so amusing, that he stopped cry- 
ing for the first time for two mortal hours. It seemed to be 
necessary for somebody to cry, however, and Beeb sat down 
and rubbed her empty, aching arms with very salt tears. 

Of course her mother came in and found her. Beeb did not 
cry an average of more than twice a year, but, twice or twenty 
times, her mother would be morally sure to find her. Gen- 
erally she dried her eyes, and told her mother that she had a 
headache, and told herself that she must stop. This time 
she sat and cried on, and told herself that she could n’t help 
it, and told her mother that the baby was in the clothes-bag. 

“lam sorry to see that my daughter finds it so hard to 
help a sick mother,” was the encouraging comment. 

“ How much would it cost to keep another girl ? ” said her 
daughter, suddenly. 

Mrs. Burden was a sick woman, and she looked pale and 
injured at this. 

“ That is quite out of the question, Beeb, as you very well 


142 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


know. Your father can’t possibly afford to keep but one girl. 
It comes very hard upon me, with my health. I have always 
looked forward to the time when my daughter would take the 
care off from me, pleas — ” 

“ How much ? ” interrupted Beeb. 

“ — antly and cheerfully as a daughter should,” finished 
Mrs. Burden, pulling the baby out of a hole which he had 
kicked in the clothes-bag. 

“ How much would it cost to keep a nursery-girl ? ” per- 
sisted Beeb. 

“ From two to two and a half or more.” 

‘‘ Well, Meg Bolles or Sue Crowe, for instance, you could 
get for two dollars ? ” 

‘‘ Sue ’s sick, and Meg’s half grown, — yes, I suppose so.” 

“Would a two-dollar girl be worth as much as I am? 
Would you get as much out of her ? That ’s what I want to 
know.” 

“ Why, yes, — I suppose I should, just about ; perhaps a 
little more; I should n’t hesitate to call on her for fear of 
finding her in a fit of crying because she had been asked to 
keep the baby a little while for me when I ’d been awake with 
him till morning.” 

Beeb received this thrust with bright cheeks but firm eyes. 
She loved her mother, and her mother loved her ; but they 
had always disagreed about the housework, always ; always 
would, she hotly thought. When it came to the baby she 
was apt to be impertinent. It seemed a great pity. It 


MORE WAYS THAN ONE. 


143 


seemed time to do something about it. She had always 
meant to, since she left school, — ever since she was called 
off to make preserves the very first morning that she had set 
about “ a course of study,” with her door locked. 

“Two times fifty are a hundred, and twice two — would 
n’t she have a vacation ? — twice two is four. One hundred 
and four dollars. Mother, if I will earn one hundred and 
four dollars and hire Sue Crowe, will you take her for a 
nursery-maid instead of me ? ” 

“ 0 yes,” said Mrs. Burden, listlessly, pinning and unpin- 
ning the baby. 

“ And be just as well contented ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“And not think I ’m ugly nor selfish nor undutiful nor un- 
daughterly nor anything ? ” 

“No, 0 no — where’s the baby’s other shoe? And I 
declare ! you ’ve let him get at Job’s paint-box, and — ” 

Beeb shut the door and stood still in the entry and sighed. 
Evidently, her mother had not much faith in the prospective 
services of Sue Crowe. Evidently, Beeb herself had not as 
much as she would have liked. 

However, she had a little perseverance, and that was some- 
thing, and she did n’t much care what people said about her, 
and that was more, and she was very, very tired of baby- 
tending, and that was more yet. 

So she kept her eyes open, and her ears too, and read the 
newspapers and thought and planned, and gave up plans and 


144 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


was discouraged, and tried again and thought again and 
planned again, and said, ‘‘ If a girl of eighteen can’t earn one 
hundred and four dollars, she ought to be ashamed of her- 
self ! ” and was so very much ashamed of herself that one 
day she shamed herself into a bright idea. 

She kept it quite to herself, as people always should do 
with bright ideas till the gloss is worn off, and they can see 
how bright they really are ; but she wrote a letter on the 
strength of it, and that she did n’t keep to herself. She put it 
into the post-office with her own hands that very night. It 
ran like this : — 

“Elegant Electrotyper, Esq. 

“ Dear Sir, — I should like to see a specimen of your silver- 
plating for domestic use, as advertised in the Every Evening of this 
week. I enclose postage. Please send also one of your circulars 
for agents. 

“ Eespectfully, 

“(Miss) Beer Burden, 

“ Northampton, 

“ Mass.” 

Four days after that Mr. Burden brought home from tlie 
office a very plump letter for Beeb. She opened it, and a 
little bottle fell out. It was her specimen bottle of silver- 
plating. 

‘‘ Homoeopathy ? ” asked her father. But Beeb went away 
with red cheeks, and locked herself and her bottle and her 
letter into her own room. 


MORE WAYS THAN ONE. 


145 


She opened her letter and read it. 

“Miss Beeb Burden. 

“Dear Madam, — We enclose specimen bottle of our silver- 
plating and directions and circulars, as requested. Hoping to hear 
from you again, we are 

“ Eespectfully yours, 

“Elegant Electrotyper & Co.” 

Slie opened her bottle and tried it. She experimented on 
a little black silver fruit-knife and a big brown copper door- 
knob. Her little bottle turned them both to fresh and fair 
silver, in which she could see her own dancing eyes. What- 
ever else might be said of Elegant Electrotyper, he was so far 
no cheat. 

She opened her circulars and studied them. At the end 
of Iialf an hour she put them down and sighed. 

“ I must have,” she said aloud, “ seven dollars to begin 
with. Sev — en dol — lars.” She looked in her purse and 
found just three. She might go to her father, but she would 
n’t go to her father. She would run her own business on her 
own capital, or not at all. 

It seemed very hard that a girl of eighteen should have to 
give up her chance of a substitute in the dreadful draft of the 
world on nursery-maids for want of four dollars ! 

Beeb went to her upper drawer. There are very few 
trials in life that a girl will not find some balm for in her 
upper drawer. 


7 


J 


146 


TROTTY S WEDDING TOUR. 


Beeb went from force of habit, and to keep from crying, 
and to see if her laces were tumbled, and for want of some- 
thing better to do, but when she got there she saw her 
robin’ s-egg sash and gloves. 

Quick as a flash she thought, I ’ll sell them to Martie 
Glegg ! ” And quick as the thought she was over at Martie 
Glegg’s, and had actually offered to sell her her best sash and 
gloves for four dollars ! 

It was a dreadful thing to do, — and Beeb was very fond 
of that sash, — and when the pure, pale, wonderful tints of 
the heavy silk fell out over Martie’s astonished hands, it 
seemed so horrible to be selling silver-plating for a living ! 

‘‘ Why, how funny ! ” said Martie Glegg. 

‘‘ I know it,” said Beeb, winking fast, but I can’t help it. 
I have a reason. I don’t care so much about the sash as I do 
about the money just now. Is it a bargain ? ” 

Martie had always coveted the robin’ s-egg sash, and it was 
an easy bargain. She took the silk and the gloves, and Beeb 
took the money, and that was all. 

That was all till Beeb went to see her Cousin Mudge in 
East Hampton, a week after. It was while she was at East 
Hampton that her mother had this note from her. 

“ Dear Mother, — I don’t know what you will think, but I ara 
going on an agency for silver-plating. I shall begin to-morrow. 1 
had the box sent here because Cousin Mudge and I always get along, 
and I knew she would n’t care, and she does n’t. She says I can sell 
silver-plating and be a lady too. I thought it was very nice in her 


MORE WAYS THAN ONE. 


147 


to say so. Of course I think so too, or I should n’t be doing it. I 
hope you won’t mind. You know you said you would take Sue 
Crowe if I could get her. I shall strike out from Cousin Mudge as 
a head-centre. I thought perhaps you and father would rather I 
would n’t begin at home. 

‘‘Your affectionate daughter, 

“ Beeb.” 

“ Y'ou will want a bag/’ said Cousin Mudge, the next 
morning at breakfast. That was one good thing about 
Cousin Mudge ; if she approved of what you were about, 
she lent a hand to it as a matter of course. 

“ A bag ? ” Beeb paused perplexed over her muffins. 

“ To carry your bottles in. How did you suppose you were 
going to carry them ? ” 

“ Why — in the box — I — suppose. I had n’t thought ! ” 

“ Of course you had n’t,” said Cousin Mudge, and doWn 
came her best travelling-bag, of umber-colored morocco, new 
and shining. 

“ Suppose I should break a bottle, and silver-plate it ? ” 
said Beeb, aghast. “ Let me have the old carpet-bag with 
the blue roses on it.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” decided Cousin Mudge, ‘‘ there ’s no reason 
why a lady should n’t carry a lady’s bag, because she happens 
to be a — ” 

“ Pedler,” said Beeb aS she started off ; that ’s it. I 
don’t feel like anything in the world but a pedler.” 

However, there are so many worse things one might feel 


148 


tkotty’s wedding tour. 


like, that she plucked up courage, and when she found that 
her gloves matched the umber-colored bag to a shade, she 
held up her head, and was quite happy. 

She made three calls that morning. The first was at a new 
house built since her last visit to Cousin Mudge, and the peo- 
ple were strangers quite. That enlivened her, for you might 
as well be a pedler as anything else, you see, if nobody knows 
that you were ever anything else, and she rang the bell 
boldly. 

The servant looked her over, and stood with her hand upon 
the latch. 

“ I have some silver-plat — ” began Beeb. 

Back door,” said the servant, briskly. 

Beeb reddened redder than the umber bag, and had nine 
tenths of a mind to take herself immediately back to her 
mother’s nursery, and give the silver-plating to the baby to 
poison itself with. But Beeb had more common-sense than 
most girls — no, I do not mean to take it back — more com- 
mon-sense than most girls, and she stood fire. If she could 
sell her silver-plating at the back door, why not ? To the 
back door she stoutly went. 

“ I should like to sell you some silver-plating for domes — ” 

‘‘We has our silver solid in this house,” said the back 
door, in the shape of a huge red cook. 

“ — tic use,” pleaded Beeb, faintly. But she beat a rapid 
retreat, to spare herself the back door’s repartee. 

Her second call was on a motherly old woman with a baby 


MORE WAYS THAN ONE. 


149 


in her arms. She said she should be glad to look at the 
silverin’, and invited Beeb in. Beeb went in, and with trem- 
■ bling hand produced her little specimen bottle, and her large 
sale bottles, and her circulars, and her advertisements, and 
her fruit-knife, and a brass button that she carried to experi- 
ment upon, and tremblingly sang the praises of her wares. 

‘‘ A new thing, — and a very special agency, — and will 
brighten all your silver, and — and — I ’ve forgotten what 
else, but you can see for yourself, ma’am ; everything, I ’m 
sure, from chimneys to tooth-picks.” 

This ghastly effort to be amusing Beeb never renewed. By 
the next day she came to the novel conclusion that one could 
be an agent and talk sense too. 

“ La me ! ” said the old lady, who was much interested in 
the little bottles. “ That beats all ! Now I can’t afford to 
buy one of them myself, but if you ’ll hold the baby a minute, 
I ’ll jest step over and see if Anny Maria won’t take one. 
She ’s my darter, Anny Maria, and lives in the next house. 
That ’s her baby. Is n’t he cunnin’ ? ” 

“ Yes, very,” said Beeb, meekly, as the umber bag went 
out of her lap, and the heavy baby came in, ‘‘ you — won’t — 
be gone very long ? ” 

“ Bless you, no ! Half a second. You amuse yourself 
with the little fellow, and I ’ll be spry.” 

' The old lady was not so ‘‘ spry” as she might have been. 
Beeb ‘‘amused” herself with Anny Maria’s baby for — by 
the clock — a full half-hour. 


150 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


“ Might just as well be shaking rattles at home ! ” thought 
poor Beeb. But she did not dare to run away, for fear the 
baby would crawl into the fire, and Anny Maria arrest her 
for murder. 

When the old lady came back, the agent and the baby were 
both crying. The baby was black in the face, and the agent 
had spoiled her umber kids. 

Deary me,” said the old lady. Why, I thought you ’d 
enjoy it to rest a spell, and have a baby to play with. Well, 
Anny Maria she rubbed up a fork and two spoons with that 
there little specimen bottle, and she liked it first-rate ; but 
you see she could n’t buy a bottle because her husband was 
n’t to home ! ” 

Beeb made one more call that morning. It was at a shoe- 
maker’s house, across the way from the old lady. They told 
her at the door that they did not patronize beggars, and she 
went desperately back to Cousin Mudge. 

I ’ll give it up ! I ’ll go home and get into a big apron, 
and be nursery-maid the rest of my life ! ” 

“ Nonsense ! ” said Cousin Mudge. ‘‘Don’t give it. up till 
after dinner. I ’ve got a strawberry-pie.” 

Beeb ate the strawberry-pie, and concluded to try again in 
the afternoon. 

So she tried again in the afternoon, and at the first trial 
she stumbled over the valedictorian of her class in the young 
ladies’ Star of Hope Seminary, mistress of a pretty little 
brown house of her own. 


MORE WAYS THAN ONE. 


151 


“ Poll Perkins ! ” 

“ I ’m Poll Higgins, at your service.” 

“And I’m a plated pedler — I mean a silvered agent — 
dear me ! let me in, and I ’ll tell you what I am.” 

So Mrs. Poll Higgins let her in, and Beeb told her what 
she was, and why she was, and all about it. 

“ That ’s the best joke of the season,” said Mrs. Poll. 
“ Why, I ’ll buy your silver-plating ! ” 

“ For domestic use,” began Beeb, glibly. “ Nothing dele- 
terious in its composition. Will plate silver, copper, bronze, 
etc., in five minutes. Truly, Poll,” — the dignity of the agent 
broke down here, — “I’m not a cheat, and it is rCt a sell, nor 
a wash, nor anything dreadful. You need n’t plate up your 
old steel knives. It ’s made to clean your best silver with. 
Silvers it right over, and so much easier than silver-soap ! ” 

“ Beeb,” said Mrs. Poll, “ I shall die laughing. You ’ll 
make your fortune, see if you don’t. To think of it ! ” 

Beeb thought very well of it when Mrs. Poll bought the 
First Bottle, and paid for it, cash down. Beeb thought better 
still of it when Mrs. Poll put on her hat and ran over to a 
neighbor’s with her and her bag and her bottles, and in- 
troduced them all into the parlor, and she thought best of it 
when she found that she had sold Bottle No. 2, and been let 
out of the front door besides. 

Her spirits were up now, and she took leave of Mrs. Poll 
and ill-luck together, and canvassed the town till tea-time 
bravely and volubly. By tea-time she had sold Bottle No. fi. 


152 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


Very well,” said Cousin Mudge. well. Now, my 

dear, you just make your head-quarters at my house as long 
as you can, to save board, and silver-plate this town, — if you 
don’t mind going where you ’re known ? ” 

‘‘ Not a hit ! ” said perverse Beeb. I rather enjoy it now.” 

Then, when you ’ve used up this place, strike out by cars 
here and there, you see, and come back at night.” 

‘‘Or board in a respectable dressmaker’s family, for in- 
stance — ‘ cheap,’ ” suggested Beeb, whose business invention 
sharpened with her success. 

“ Four weeks,” said Cousin Mudge, reflectively, “ I should 
think^ would be all you need.” 

What were four weeks of silver-agency to a year with a 
baby? Beeb’s eyes snapped and shone, and Beeb’s heart 
and head swam in a blur of silver-plate. 

It was, I believe, just four weeks thereafter- that Mrs. 
Burden, dejectedly walking the room with the baby, opened 
the last letter of the business correspondence with which this 
story is concerned. 

East Hampton, Tuesday. 

“ Dear Mother, — You see there are more ways than one to help 
you. I enclose one hundred and four dollars. It would have taken 
longer if I had had more board to pay. Cousin Mudge has been very 
good. I wrote to Sue Crowe a week ago, and engaged her to come 
to-night. You may expect her confidently. I shall stay a day or 
two longer to rest, at Polly Higgins’s, and then you may expect 
to see 

“Your affectionate silver-agent and lady of leisure, 

“ Beeb.” 


THE CHAPTER THAT TROTTY DID N’T PRINT. 


153 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE CHAPTER THAT TROTTY DID n’t PRINT. 

T ROTTY was growing so much better all this time, that 
he had begun to go out to ride, and to sit in the front 
yard or on the piazza. One day his mother called for him 
to go over to the Junction with her, with Mr. Bogg’s old 
white pony, just as the children had assembled for their day’s 
work at the story-book. Trotty said, as he limped off, that 
they ’d better go right on ; and they thought so too. 

“ I tell you ! ” said Lill. 

‘‘ Well, what ? ” asked Nate. 

“ It ’s just our chance,” said Lill, to print that one about 
the compositions that we did n’t know what on earth to do 
with. It would be too bad to leave it out, and he ’d make 
such a fuss ! It ’s real short. We ’ll hurry up, and he ’ll 
never notice — you ’ll see — till the book is all done, and too 
late for him ! Come now ! Hurry up ! Fly round ! ” 

They hurried up, they flew round, they laughed and en- 
joyed it mightily ; it was all over by the time Trotty got 
home, and the book laid away in its place. They called 
the story 


7 * 


154 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


TROTTY’S COMPOSITIONS. 

I SAT down this morning to write you a story about a boy 
who hung himself ; but Lill came in. 

Lill does n’t like that boy ; she has heard about him 
a dozen times, for he was a real boy, and he really 
did it ; she disapproves of him on high aesthetic, moral, 
and religious grounds, — which means that the boy did 
an awkward thing, and hurt his mother’s feelings. So 
Lill took the boy to light my fire with, and he burned 
up with a loud snap, as if he much preferred it to hang- 
ing. 

Then last week I wrote you another little story, but Lill 
said it made her cry. And, as I could n’t possibly print you 
a story that Lill objected to, for excellent reasons, that no- 
body but Lill and Trotty and myself understand, I sat down 
and looked at Lill in despair. 

“ Don’t be troubled,” said Lill, patronizingly. ‘‘ You can 
write about the giant who lived in a pumpkin, on account of 
having the cramp, or did he have the cramp because he lived 
in the pumpkin ? I forget.” 

I objected that that was a small subject. 

“ Or the fairy who married the governor, and hid in the 
decanter when she had her first dinner-party. Or the ghost 
who sat on the northeast corner of the Queen’s looking-glass. 
Or — let me see — the man who was tried for committing 
suicide. Or that island in the Pacific, you know, where the 


THE CHAPTER THAT TROTTY DID N’t PRINT. 


155 


inhabitants all dine on hashed novels, with poetical obituaries 
for dessert. Or — ” 

‘‘ Lill,” said I, ‘‘ any one of those stories would be an im- 
position on the intellect of my readers. What is that stick- 
ing out of your pocket ? ” 

“ Gerty’s notes, I suppose. Gerty writes to me, and I 
write to Gerty, a note every day. Gerty ’s splendid ! Why, 
no, they ’reTrotty’s compositions.’’ 

Trotty’s compositions ! ” 

“ 0 yes, to be sure. Did n’t you know ? Trotty writes a 
composition every week. We all write a composition every 
week.” 

“ But Trotty could n’t write, the last I saw of him, which 
was at half past eight this morning.” 

“ Only to print — no — and such letters ! When he prints 
his name on the blackboard, I can’t think of anything but a 
spider fighting a duel with a puppy. But then he dictates, 
you see, and Miss Pumpkin or I write them out. Is n’t it 
funny in Miss Pumpkin to make him ? But he ’s got used to it 
now, and talks as fast as fun. Want to see them ? They ’re 
all numbered. The first one will kill you ! He fretted a week, 
and cried an hour, before he got that off.” 

When Lill went to school she left the compositions all in 
a little crumpled heap in my lap. On reading them over, I 
decided to copy them out for you, for three reasons. First, 
because I found them entertaining ; second, because I thought 
it was a bright idea in Miss Pumpkin to make her little peo- 


156 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


pie begin to compose as soon as they began to think ; third, 
because it would save me the trouble of telling you a story 
myself ! 

No. 1. — Slavery is the Greatest Curse of Human Nature. 

(I feel compelled to insert a parenthesis for the purpose of 
admitting that No. 1 was not, even at the cost of ‘‘ fretting a 
week and crying an hour,” an original production on the part 
of Trotty. It is a fac-simile of the first composition written 
by the daughter of a famous antislavery author, — with whom 
I used to go to school when I was the size of Trotty, — and 
Trotty had heard me tell about the school, and the author, 
and the daughter, and the author’s daughter’s composition, 
till he knew it by heart ; and I have no doubt that he thought 
he was doing just as smart a thing as the little heiress of 
fame had done, when he gravely got it off ; and that Nita or 
Nate would some time or other be telling of it and him to 
some other Trotty yet unborn and unbothered with the duties 
of authorship.) 

But if I stop to talk, I shall never finish copying ; so here, 
word for word, as Miss Pumpkin wrote it down for Trotty, is 

No. 2. — Peanuts. 

I like peanuts. Grandma don’t. So does Lill and Biddy. 
First you crack e shell. Wiv your teef. Or else you step 
on it and, — Smush it, Sir ! I tell you ! 

Sometimes they grow wivout shells. That kind grows on 


THE CHAPTER THAT TROTTY DID n’t PRINT. 157 

a Christmas tree when I got lost in e snow-storm. In little 
bags. I punched a hole in mine. Yen ve old fings all rolled 
down e register, splash ! Lill says somebody cried. It was 
n’t Lill, and it was n’t Grandma, either. It must have been 
Zherusalem. 

That ’s enough. 

No. 3. — Mar-lar-sis Candy. 

First you hotten it ; ven you warm it ; ven you pop some 
popped corn. 

So ven you stick it all into a little muss. And nuts too. 
Once I candy-pulled some of my own. But when I got it 
candy-pulled all up, it was n’t vere. Lill says I eat it. But 
Lill never did know much. 

I like mar-lar-sis candy. I like it better than I do to give 
my money to ve negroes. Sometimes vey bake rounds like 
doughnuts, with holes in the middle. I don’t mean in e ne- 
groes but in e candy, don’t you see ? 

Once Nate and me and Zherusalem we had a candy-pull 
when Nate was sick. Over at Nate’s. But Nate was n’t any 
better. And Zherusalem felled in. All over. So I stuck to 
ve kitchen floor ; on the bottoms of my shoes, you know. 
And I kept a sticking. So Nate’s mother she would n’t 
laugh, because she had to wash ve floor. But me and Nate 
and Zherusalem we laughed when Zherusalem failed in. 
And if vere ’s any more about mar-lar-sis candy, I don’t 
know it. 


158 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


No. 4. — General Grant. 

Miss Pumpkin says to write somefing vat I can’t eat. 

I can’t fink of anyfing but General Grant. 

General Grant. 

We made him out of a wood-pile once. 

General Grant. 

(Dee me ! Dee, dee ! I don’t know any.) 

Well — General Grant. 

He lives into ve White House up at Washington. He ’s 
ve President. I ’m going to be. When I get big enough. 
But Max says not before I get into long pants. Vats e 
trouble with my mother. She ’s a very good woman, but she 
keeps your pants so short. 

Ho ! hum — General Grant. 

Let me see. Aunt Matthews saw him down at Bethlehem 
this summer. Where ve mountains are. But Lill says it 
was n’t e Bible Bethlehem. Lill ’s always saying somefing. 

General Grant lighted in the war, and he just Beat ’m ! 
Of course he did. So would I. 

Once I saw a RebeL He was alive, too. I did n’t see any-^ 
fing very funny about him. Nor pistols either. 

No. 5. 

Dear Mrs. Punkins, — 

I don’t fink a letter sounds much like a composition, and 
Lill is writing it out because you said so. I should n’t fink 
you ’d want a letter from me, when you know as well as you 


THE CHAPTER THAT TROTTY DID N’T PRINT. 


159 


want to how you ’ll just see me at quarter of nine to-moller 
morning. 

I ’m sitting on e table. Once I tipped over the ink-bottle. 
It did n’t ’most all go into Lill’s lap. Vere was a little left. 
Lill ’s in a chair. Grandma is knitting. Zherusalem’s got 
under her rocker, and she rocks on him. So I tipped e ink 
over trying to get him out. 

Yen last night my muvver went to a prayer-meeting. She 
said it was Solomon. But I don’t believe it, and I would n’t 
if I were you either. Solomon could n’t be vere because he 
died, and you know you told us vere were n’t any ghosts in 
North America ! 

If you ’ll give me bumble-bee to spell to-morrow, I ’ll get to 
ve head. You need n’t tell, either. B-u-m bum b-e-1 ble, 
bumble, b-e-a bee. Bumble-bee. 

I ’ve got a sore froat. Playing Drown in e hogshead. So 
Nate put on ve cover and I could n’t get out till I ’d stayed in 
awhile. It felt a little damp. 

But I don’t fink vey need to changed all my clothes. Ye 
water was n’t more ’n a foat deep ; and another piecer foot. 

Lill says e ink ’s all gone. Because Zherusalem jumped 
me over it again getting rocked on. 

I don’t like letters. I ’d rather telegraph. I had a blue 
silk one. Before I went to school to you. Grandma lost it. 

Lill says I am 

Your affectionate Pupil, 

Trotty Tyrol. 


160 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


But I don’t believe it ! I would n’t be anyfing vat sounded 


so. 


No. 6. — Murder. 


Trotty. 


This composition is about murder. Last night Lill read 
aloud about murder. In a book. Mr. Quinces wrote the 
book, but I don’t know him. He said murder was a Finart, 
but I don’t believe vat, eiver. It ’s when you ’ve shooted a 
man ; or jabbed a hole in him. Or chopped him up with a 
Natchet. Or screwed a cock-screw into him. 

Or you might wring a schicken’s neck if you ’d rather. 
Once I punched a frog with my hoop-stick too. So did Nita. 
But it was all e same frog. 

Murder is very wicked. If you don’t look out, you get 
hung. 

But I did n’t. 

Absolam got hunged. In a tree. Dangling. 

Max murdered beetles all squirming on a pin. In tlie 
middle of em. 

Vere ’s somebody in vis town I know, murdered a puppy 
last spring. But I sha’ n’t tell. Hee was a revelation of 
mine. But I did n’t say it was my brother Max, eiver. It 
cried. In a meal-bag, too. I pasted an eternal revenue 
stamp on e bag. So this is a composition on murder. 


“ Where ’s the book ? ” asked Trotty, the first thing when 
he came home. 


THE CHAPTER THAT TROTTY DID N’t PRINT. 


161 


‘‘0, it ’s put away,’’ said Lill ; “ we got through some time 
ago. Who ’d you see out riding ? ” 

‘‘ 0,” said Trotty, diverted for the instant, “ I saw old 
Mrs. Bangs — or else it was young Mrs. Binney. I never 
can tell those two apiece. She gave me some awful dry car- 
ry wo seeds. How much did you print ? Let ’s see the 
book.” 

“0,1 can’t go up and get it now,” said Lill. “Never 
mind ! ” 

“ Well,” said Trotty, “ it does n’t make much difference, I 
s’pose. I don’t know ve stories apiece, either, very well yet. 
Has Merle been over ? ” 

“ No,” said Lill. 

Trotty forgot about the story-book, and began to think of 
Merle. 


162 


tkotty’s wedding tour. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

A VERY “ COMMON ” STORY. 

ROTTY thought so much about Merle, that perhaps he 



JL thought her over there the next day. At all events, 
she came. She had a new lace frill in her neck, and some 
emerald ear-rings. At least, she told Lill and Nita that they 
were emeralds, and Nita was very gloomy about it for nearly 
fifteen minutes. Her mother would not let her have her ears 


bored. 


“ I don’t wear ear-rings,” said Nate. 

“0, you ’re a boy I ” said Merle, loftily. 

‘‘ I never thought of it before,” said Lill, musingly, but I 
don’t see why that should make the difference. I wonder 
why girls fuss up and boys don’t ? ” 

‘‘ You ’re polite ! ” said Merle, growing red, to say your 
company ’s fussed up ! ” 

“ I ’d forgotten you were alive,” said Lill, ‘‘ but if the cap 
fits, you may put it on. If we don’t go to work now, we 
shall quarrel. The next one is printed, and will go in like a 
whistle. Shall I read any of it ? ” 

‘‘ Don’t ! ” said Merle. 

Do ! ” said Nita. 

“ I would,” said Trotty. 


ONE WAY TO GET AN EDUCATION. 


163 


‘‘ Well, then,” said Merle. 

“ You ’d better begin and see,” said Nate. 

So Lill began. 

ONE WAY TO GET AN EDUCATION. 

‘‘ Is marm, the doctor, in ? ” 

I suppose that will be one of the disadvantages — for a 
little while — of being both a doctor and a “ marm.” By- 
and by, when there is a woman physician in every town — in 
the good time surely coming, Is doctor in ? ” will come as 
naturally and respectfully as it comes now on old Dr. Blue- 
pill’s steps, across the street. Though now I think of it, I 
do not know but the little fellow intended rather an unusual 
exhibition of confidence in my professional capacity, than a 
masculine and satiric fling at my sex. 

However that may be, “ Marm, the doctor,” preparing at- 
tenuations of aconite in the little back office, laid down her 
bottle of tincture promptly, and went to the door. 

Did I say a little fellow ? It was a very little fellow. By 
a stretch of imagination you might have said that the tip end 
of the tip-top lock of his ragged hair reached to the door- 
knob. His clothes were as ragged as his hair, and were 
covered with lint and dust. 

“ Why, Bob ! ” said I. Bob was an old friend and patient ; 
I had sewed up two broken heads for him, and taken him 
through scarlet-fever, mumps, and measles. 


164 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


‘‘ ’T ain’t me,” said Bob. “ It ’s Jake. He ’s got smashed 
into the mills, and boss sent me after ye. Golly ! You ’d 
ought to see him. I seen him. Jammed his finger clean off 
into the gearing.” 

I had my hat and rubber-boots on before Bob had finished 
his message, and we started off together at a fast walk, 
splashing through the spring mud. 

‘‘ Poor Jake ! ” I said, between the splashes ; not that I 
had the least idea who Jake was, but that I knew any Jake 
must be a poor Jake, who had lost a finger in the gearing. 

‘‘ I tell you,” said Bob, in his confidential way, — for his 
size. Bob has the most confidential manner of any gentleman 
of my acquaintance, — “ I tell you I I don’t call him none of 
yer ‘ poor Jakes 1 ’ ” 

“ That ’s a pity,” said marm, the doctor, abstractedly. 

“ No, ’t ain’t, neither,” said Bob, the confident, stoutly. 
“ It ’s my ’pinion them chaps puts their fingers into the gear- 
ing a puppuss.” 

What ? ” Marm, the doctor, suddenly attentive. 

‘‘ Yes, sir ! ” said Bob, mysteriously. ‘‘ That ’s my ’pinion, 
marm. They puts their fingers in a puppuss.” 

‘‘ But what could possibly — ” 

‘‘To git out. They puts in their fingers and then they 
puts out. Jim Shanks he done it. He loafed three weeks 
’fore he healed over. He done it just in skatin’-time, and 
he had a pair o’ new rockers, Christmas, that he had n’t 
tried. And I think,” said Bob, with an injured air, “ it ’s 


ONE WAY TO GET AN EDUCATION. 


165 


mighty hard on chaps as has to stay to work industrious. If 
I was a doctor, I ’d take a hatchet to Jake. There ! there ’s 
where he lives — little yaller house t’other side the road. 
That ’s his mar to the door, hollerin’ behind her apron. I 
hope ye ’ll make Jake holler I ” 

With this charitable wish Bob splashed back to his work, 
and I splashed over to the little yellow house where Jake’s 
“ mar ” stood hollerin’.” 

She stopped when I came up, and took me in to see my 
patient, drying her eyes as she went. 

My patient stood up straight in the middle of the room. 
It was a queer little patient. He was white to the lips, and 
covered with blood, and he trembled all over with pain, like a 
little hurt dog ; but he did not cry out nor speak. 

Sit down,” said I. 

Jake obeyed, very reluctantly. 

“ He hain’t set down before,” said his mother, “ I could n’t 
make him. He jest stood there and stood there. 0, the 
Lord have mercy ! ” 

For Jake, when he sat down, sank down; sank a little 
more, a little more ; then doubled up and fell, — or would 
have fallen. I caught him half-way to the floor. 

An’ he ’s fented ! ” cried his mother. And of course he 

had. 

‘‘ I knew I should,” said the boy, as soon as he opened his 
eyes, if I set down.” 

When Jake opened his eyes I looked into them. They 


166 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


were odd little eyes ; set back far in his head, black as jet, 
and as restless as a star behind a cloud on a windy night. 
When they looked at me they snapped. Jake had an odd 
mouth, too, twisted like a cable-rope. 

“ Very well,” said I, when Jake and I had looked at each 
other. “ Where ’s that hand ? Hold it out, Jake. 

Jake held it out. 

All the ‘‘ inarm ” in me had the heartache at sight of that 
hand. It was such a little hand to put knives and forceps 
into, without so much as saying, “ Poor fellow ! ” But Jake 
and I had understood each other, when I looked into his lit- 
tle snapping eyes. He wanted to be doctored, not to be 
“ inarmed.” The less fuss the better, for Jake. I might 
as well throw scalding water at his hand as to say, ‘‘ Poor 
Jake!” He was quite contented with ‘‘Hold it out!” 

So he held out the little grimy, bloody hand. I put in the 
probe; Jake shut his snapping eyes. I took it out; Jake 
shut his twisted mouth. I laid the hand down gently. 

“ Well ? ” said Jake, with his eyes still shut. 

“ You Ve done a bad thing by that middle finger, I suppose 
you know, Jake.” 

“ Wrenched her right off.” Jake nodded. “ I should ha’ 
lost my arm, if I had n’t. She jest twisted off, and snapped. 
Bob Smart picked it up. I seen him.” 

“ But you see,” said the doctor, “ you have n’t broken it at 
the joint. I must amputate the finger at the second joint.” 

Jake nodded again. 


ONE WAY TO GET AN EDUCATION. 


167 



“ I ’m sorry,” said the marm, in spite of the doctor. 

‘‘ Don’t you talk,” said Jake. “ Jest jab away ! ” 

The marm held her tongue and the doctor jabbed away. 

Jake’s snapping eyes went quite behind a cloud, and Jake’s 
twisted mouth turned very white. But Jake never winced 
nor cried out. 

‘‘I’m glad it is the left hand,” said I, as I took the last 
stitch in the last bandage. 

“ So be I,” said Jake. 

“ It was a fortunate chance,” said I. 


168 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


But Jake said nothing. 

“ And I wonder that you did not lose the arm,” I said, 
another day, when I was dressing the mangled finger. 

But Jake said nothing. 

And another day, cheerily, ‘‘Never mind, Jake! Very 
likely you will do twice as much with three fingers as you 
would with four.” 

But Jake said nothing at all. 

One day Bob, the confidential, met and stopped me just 
starting to see my diphtheria patients in the New parish. 

“ Boy — on — behind ! ” shouted Bob, with an air of com- 
municating a great secret, hidden from the world at large, 
hut especially revealed to his personal and unerring insight. 
“ Boy — on — hQ-hi-i-ind .' ” 

Sure enough. There was a boy on behind, — not a very 
unusual sight, I must admit, on marm the doctor’s buggy, — 
a boy with a mouth like a cable-rope, and eyes like stars on a 
cloudy night, and three fingers on the left hand. 

“ Dear me, Jake 1 ” said I, — for I had not seen Jake for 
some weeks. “ Hand all right ? ” 

“ All right,” said Jake. 

“ Quite healed ? ” 

“ Yes, marm,” said Jake. 

“ Where are you going ? ” 

“ Nowheres partikerlar.” 

“ What did you want on behind my buggy ? ” 

“Not much partikerlar.” 


ONE WAY TO GET AN EDUCATION. 


169 


Anything to say to me ? ” 

“ Nothing partikerlar.” 

Suppose you jump in and ride to the New parish, and say 
it, then? ” Jake supposed. 

‘‘I’m kinder muddy.” 

“ So am 1.” 

Jake jumped in. 

I touched up Dolly, for I was already late about my morn- 
ing’s calls, and Jake and I flew fast over the freckled face of 
the still. New parish woods. For some time we rode quite 
silently. Jake ran the hand with the little grimy stump 
through the arm-rest on the side of the buggy, and drew 
clouds enough over his eyes to have blown up a shower. To 
be sure, Jake never ran on behind my buggy without his 
reasons ; but, to be sure, there should be no fuss made about 
Jake. If he had anything “ partikerlar ” to say, he should 
say it. It was his turn to “jab away.” 

“ See here,” said Jake, just as the diphtheria houses struck 
into sight, “ see here, you see.” 

“ Yes,” I said, I saw. “ What was it ? ” 

“ Mar ’s goin’ to send me to school, you see.” 

“ When?” 

“ To-morrow.” 

“ For how long ? ” 

“ Three months.” 

“ That ’s very nice,” said I. 

“ Yes,” said Jake, “ that ’s very nice.” 


170 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


“ I thought,” said Jake, after a moment’s pause, “ you ’d 
like to know it.” 

Now that, I think, was one of the advantages of being both 
a doctor and a marm.” Of course I was glad to know it, 
very glad ; but not so glad as Jake himself, by any means. 

‘‘ No,” said Jake, gravely, like a grown man, no, not so 
glad as I be.” 

‘‘You think more of going to school than most boys, I sus- 
pect, Jake ? ” 

Jake must have thought more of something than most 
boys. He sat up straight in the carriage, and began to 
tremble. 

“ See here. It ’s jest like this. Now see here. It seems 
to me as ef I did n’t get an edication, I should — I should be 
sech a fool ! ” said poor Jake. “ It seems to me as ef I must 
have an edication, any way. They would n’t send me.” 
Jake broke off, abruptly. “ Mar ’s got scairt, now. I ’m 
goin’ for three months. I thought ye ’d like to know it.” 

But Jake’s little grimy, mangled hand trembled in the rest ; 
he turned such a twisted face up to me that I could not untie 
a strand of it. It was aU a knot. So I sat and looked at 
Jake, and Jake sat and looked at me. 

“ I ’ve ben to work sence I was ’most eight year old,” said 
Jake. 

“ Poor little fellow ! ” 

“ An’ I alwers begged to go to school, and mar never sent 
me sence. I ’m twelve years old next month, marm.” 


ONE WAY TO GET AN EDUCATION. 


171 


‘‘ Poor little fellow ! ’’ 

‘‘ I won’t he a poor little fellow ! ” The clouds in the little 
factory boy’s eyes broke suddenly, and the stars of a kind of 
manhood which we do not see every day, in factories or out, 
came out and shone all over his twisted face. I won’t be a 
poor little fellow all my life ! See if I do ! ” 

‘‘I’m sure you won’t,” said I. 

“Well, then,” said Jake, “I’ll get out now and walk 
home.” 

But he stopped, half over the wheel. 

“ Three mon^is is a great deal, don’t you think it is ? ” 

“ A great deal,” said I. 

Jake jumped over the wheel. 

“ Mebbe they ’ll give me the year out. Should n’t you 
think they might ? ” 

“ I should think they might, indeed,” said I. 

Jake stood still and washed his feet in a little mud- 
puddle, while I got out and tied Dolly to the first diphtheria 
post. 

“ See here,” said Jake, again. 

I think that was the first time that I really had seen. 

Jake looked up. In an instant I knew that I had cut the 
knot of the little twisted face. Jake looked up, and Jake 
trembled so that he could scarcely stand in the mud-puddle. 

“ I did it — marm — I did it a puppuss ! ” 

“0 Jake!” 

“I thought they ’d let me out. I did it — 0, I did! — 


172 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


I did it a puppuss. I put my finger in. I meant to. 
Look here! Don’t you tell. I thought you ’d like to 

KNOW.” 

Of course it was a dreadful thing to do ! And of course 
neither Jake nor I would want another boy to do it ! But of 
course — or at least I thought so — it was too much of a story 
to be thrown away. 

“ I like that,” said Nate, as Lill finished reading, and began 
to cut and stitch the story nicely into its place. 

‘‘You would n’t catched me doing that ! ” pronounced 
Trotty with a confident smile. “ Nor I don’t believe any 
other man did, much. It would n’t hurt so much to be a 
dunce.” 

“It was true,” said Lill. “ Somebody told me so, — at 
least, she said it was true boys sometimes put their fingers in, 
to get out of the mill ; I don’t know as it was to go to school, 
on the whole ; I don’t remember.” 

“ It seems to me a very common story,” observed Merle, 
feeling of her “ emerald ” ear-rings. “ Factory people are 
such common people 1 ” 

“ I think some people are just as good as other people,” 
said Lill, hotly. She and Merle never did get along. 

Trotty had to limp off and beg a ginger-snap of the new 
girl for Merle, before she “ came round.” 


THE baby’s day. 


173 


CHAPTER XYII. 

THE baby’s day. 

T he day that Aunt Matthews brought the baby over to 
spend the day, Trotty & Co., Printers, Publishers, and 
Booksellers, were in great distress. The grown-up people 
had said, — with that cruel and exquisite thoughtlessness 
characteristic of grown-up people, when you are doing any- 
thing particular, — Come, children ! just take Baby up stairs 
with you and amuse her this afternoon. She won’t disturb 
you any, and her mother is very tired with the care of her.” 

So there she was as large as life, in the printing-office, sit- 
ting on the copy, swallowing the type, tumbling into the 
waste-basket, and otherwise making herself useful about the 
establishment at a unique and fearful rate. 

This was the same baby whom Trotty had so nearly 
poisoned playing doctors long ago. She was perhaps — 
well, I don’t know how old — then. Babies look so much 
alike at all ages ! All I know is that it was the same baby. 
I take her mother’s testimony for that, so I think you can 
rely on it. 

‘‘ Perhaps we can find a baby-story,” suggested Nita, “ and 
that will keep her still.” 

‘‘ There was one,” said Bill, “ but we threw it out. Trotty 


174 


TROTTY’S WEDDING TOUR. 


thought it was too young. We might try it. If she ’ll listen 
while we print, all right. They do have an infant department 
in newspapers, you know. I always liked that story myself. 
To-morrow we ’ll pick out the oldest in the lot, to make up.” 

“ There are only three left,” said Nate, looking over the 
copy. 


BABY-BIRDS. 

A STORY FOR BABY-WOMEN. 

Pudge was happy. 

I suppose if the Germans had never called Cinderella 
Pudge-in-the-Ashes (I ’m not sure that it was the Germans, 
but it was somebody, and we won’t stop to be particular), 
Dorcas Dorothy — for that was the name of her — would 
never have been called Pudge, without the ashes. But that 
does n’t matter, because she was. 

Besides, she was sitting on the coal-heap. And she had a 
hatchet ; and she had a carving-knife ; and she had a tooth- 
brush ; and a watering-pot ; and two cookeys ; and an apple- 
core ; and a boot-jack ; and one silver spoon — to “ go min- 
ing ” with. 

Who would n’t he happy ? 

Pudge, to tell the truth, did n’t care a straw for dolls, or 
doll-houses, or patchwork, or rolling hoop, or stringing heads, 
or kissing defenceless kittens, like most girl babies. 

She had rather have ‘‘ a naxe,” or a ‘‘ skule-driver,” or a 


BABY-BIRDS. 


175 


“ zhack-knife.” She liked to do something that she had seen 
Bab do. And Bab had gone mining,” away in Arizona. 

“ I s’pose you ’d zhust as lief I ’d dig you winter coal, you 
know,” Pudge had said, placidly, appearing at the parlor door 
with the hatchet across one shoulder. If Pudge’s mother 
sighed inwardly, she smiled outwardly, and nodded. 

“With the blue check. Yes.” 

So Pudge, in the “ blue check,” — that was a great apron 
large enough to hold two of her, — on top of her coal-heap, 
was just about dirty enough to be happy, as I said. 

Once in a while her mother looked out of the window and 
nodded merrily at her. 

The sun was shooting little gold arrows at her. Pudge 
thought that they were all tipped with green feathers. But 
that must have been because the green leaves danced so that 
you could n’t tell where the sunshine ended and the trees 
began. 

The sky was very blue, and it winked at her. The coal- 
heap shone all over, and laughed at her. The tall grass lifted 
little tasselled caps and bowed to her. And a little bird came 
and sat on the wall and sang to her. 

At least. Pudge thought so. So she lay back on the coal- 
heap and dodged the green feathered arrows, and winked the 
sky out of countenance, and kicked the coal-heap till it 
stopped laughing at her, and cut the acquaintance of all the 
polite young grasses, and shut her eyes and listened to the 
little bird. 


176 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


What do you suppose it said ? 

‘‘Ba— by? Ba— by?” 

Pudge was sure of it. 

‘‘ Happy baby ? ” called her mother from the window. 

“Ba — by ? Happy ba — by ? ” called the little bird from 
the wall, till Pudge did n’t know which was which. And she 
was the happiest baby that ever you saw ! 

By and by it came again. 

‘‘ Ba — ^by ? Ba — hee ? ” from the little bird. 

“ Baby ! Baby ! ” from her mother. This time Pudge did 
know which was which. But she shut her eyes and tried 
very hard to think she did n’t, till — 

‘‘ Come, Pudge ! ” 

Now the little bird never could have said Come, Pudge ! ” 
in the world. Pudge had to admit that, and climb sorrow- 
fully down from her mine, and shoulder her hatchet, and 
swallow her apple-core, and cut herself with her carving- 
knife, and hunt for her cookeys (which she couldn’t find), 
and pocket her boot-jack, and forget her tooth-brush, and 
lose her silver spoon, and scramble up the steps into the 
house. And mamma said, — 

“ Run for a clean apron. Pudge, and then take a note over 
to grandma, just as fast as you know how.” 

“ Vere ’s a baby-bird out vere on ve wall,” said Pudge ; 
“ I want to stay and see it.” 

A what ! Baby-bird ! 0, you mean a Phoebe-bird ! ” 

Mamma laughed. 


BABY-BIRDS. 


177 


“ No, I don’t ! ” said Pudge, decidedly. I mean a baby- 
bird. He said ‘ Ba — bee ! Ba — hee I ’ ” 

“ I guess it was ‘ Phoebe ! Phoe — ^be ! ’ Come, Pudge ! ” 

“ Well ! ” said Pudge, with a superior smile, “ if you don’t 
know enough to know ve diffuns, I should fink you ’d better 
go to grandma’s youself ! ” 

But Pudge had to go. 

She went up stairs after her clean apron. It was the first 
time she had ever gone after her own apron. She did n’t like 
aprons. In the drawer she found a little old suit of Bab’s, 
folded away years ago, when Bab was small enough to hear 
baby-birds himself, — though I doubt if he ever did. There 
was a little plaid jacket and a pair of brown little trousers. 

Pudge drew them out, and her eyes grew as large as a tea- 
cup. 

Mamma had gone away into the kitchen. Pudge looked 
carefully all around. Nobody was there to see. 

‘‘ I ’ll put on ’e little zhacket ! ” said Pudge ; “ I ’d most 
as lief go to grandma’s as not, in a little zhacket ! ” 

Away went the clean apron into the corner, and down 
went Pudge — in a terrible hurry — into the little “ zhacket ” 
and pantaloons. 

It took but a minute. In another she was out of the house 
and up the street, and nobody saw her. 

Nobody saw her but the baby-bird. He cocked his eyes at 
her, and flew away as fast as he could fly. 

Pudge listened for him as she ran along, half frightened, 
8 * 


L 


178 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


half happy, in the naughty clothes. She thought he would 
think it was very funny to see her in Bab’s clothes. She 
hoped he would say, — 

“ Ba — ^by ! Ba — bee ! ” 

But he did n’t ; not once. Instead, an ugly brown bird, 
with big wings, hopped all along the telegraph-wire after her. 
Pudge thought the brown bird was singing a psalm-tune that 
her mother played Sunday nights. 

“ Child — of — sin — and — so — or — row ! ” 

Pudge did n’t like that. She did n’t altogether like the 
little zhacket,” either ; and she felt ‘‘ all out doors ” in the 
little trousers. 

Some boys were playing ball by the side of the road. They 
threw down their bats and laughed, — 

“ Hollo ! There ’s Pudge in pantaloons ! Pudge in pan- 
ta — loo — oons ! ” 

And Pudge did n’t like that, either. 

Then an old lady came by, and stopped, and threw up her 
hands. 

“ Law sakes a massy ! ” said she. ‘‘ Won’t your ma give 
it to you when you get home ! ” 

And Pudge did n’t like that, at all. 

She ran up along by the fence, edgewise, all the way to 
grandma’s — ran in and threw down her note — ran out and 
away home before grandma could get her spectacles wiped to 
see what boy that was.” 

The dreadful boys were playing ball yet. The dreadful 


BABY-BIRDS. 


179 


old lady was still in sight. The ugly brown bird was on the 
telegraph-wire. 

“ I wished I had ve old apron on ! ” sobbed poor little 
Pudge, with very red cheeks. She thought she would go 
home across the fields, and find the baby-bird, and get away 
from the boys. But she never saw the baby-bird, and she 
could n’t help hearing, “ Loo — oons ! — ta — loo — oons ! ” 
from the boys, although she stopped her ears with all of her 
little coal-dusty fingers in succession. And somehow the 
little “ zhacket ” got up all in a heap under her arm, and 
the little pantaloons unbuttoned and slipped, and slipped and 
unbuttoned, and the brown bird on the telegraph-wire called 
her 

“ Child — of — sin — and — so — or — row ! 

Child — of — sin — and — so — o — or — row ! ” 

the whole of the dreadful way home. 

Poor little Pudge ! She walked dismally into the parlor, 
with the little trousers hung across her arm, and her white 
petticoat flapping from under the “ zhacket ” against her 
scratched, bare knees. 

“ Why, Pudge ! ” said mamma, and shut her up in the 
library straightway. 

Pudge sat in her petticoat and pouted, for she had expected 
mamma to comfort her. 

“ Is my baby sorry ? ” by and by asked mamma, from the 
door. But her baby sat still and said never a word. 

“ If only vere ’d be a baby-bird to play wis ! ” sighed Pudge. 

For it was very stupid in that library, always. But never 


180 


TROTTY S WEDDING TOUR. 


a baby-bird came to play with Pudge, and away in the field 
she heard quite plainly, — 

“ Child — of — sin — and — so — or — row ! ** 

And take it altogether she was as miserable a little Pudge as 
she could well be for half an hour longer. Then she heard 
a cricket. She saw him, too, and that amused her. He was 
a funny, little, thin, black fellow, and he sat down on “ Para- 
dise Lost,” and looked at her. 

Well ? ” said Pudge. For he looked exactly as if he had 
something to say. 

“ Quick ! Quick ! ” said the cricket. 

What ? ” said Pudge. 

‘‘ Quick ! Quick ! Tell her quick ! Tell her quick ! ” 

“ Tell who quick ? I don’t want to ! ” said pouting Pudge. 

“ Tell her quick ! quick ! quick ! Tell her quick ! quick ! ” 
persisted the cricket. 

Pudge began to think that the cricket must be about right ; 
partly because she was hungry, and a little because she was 
sorry. So she went, dragging the little pantaloons by one 
leg, very solemnly, into the hall, and told her, — 

“ It ’s ’bout time to be sorry, I guess, mamma ; and is n’t 
it ’bout time for dinner, too ?” 

When she trotted up stairs to get out of the little 
‘‘ zhacket ” and into the clean apron, something on the 
front doorsteps said, — 

‘‘ Ba — bee ! ” 

And there, as true as you live, was the baby-bird. 


THE CALICO PAPER. 


181 


CHAPTER XYIII. 


THE CALICO PAPER. 


ILL called the next two stories The Laughing and 



Crying Philosopher.” She was studying Grecian His- 
tory, and had come to Heraclitus and Democritus, I sup- 


pose. 


Like most of the stories, they both were true. 

At least,” said Trotty, they ’re good ways true.” 

“ Where ’s the hand-bag ? ” 

“ Here ’s the sun-umbrella ! ” 

“ The baby ’s swallowed the shawl-straps ! ” 

‘‘ No, she has n’t. She ’s sitting in the custard-pudding ! ” 
“ Here are the straps ! Bib ’s hung himself to the entry- 
lamp with them. And here are your tips, mother. And 
don’t forget the little gray shawl. 0 Alta ! where ’s the 
lunch-box ? Did you put slices in between the mustard ? I 
mean — ” 

Here ’s the coach this minute, and I can’t find the key 
to the hat-box anywhere ! Mari ! Alta ! Man ! DonH 
let the baby tumble down the steps till she gets her face 
washed ! ” 

‘‘ Here, Bib, hold still, sir ! Where ’s your jacket ? Stop 


182 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


eating your necktie! Alta! we never thought of the cam- 
phene-burner.” 

“Nor the condensed beef. Bib, if you must stand on 
your head, don’t do it on the boiled eggs. I ’m afraid they 
were n’t done very hard. Yes, here ’s the waterproof and 
the rubbers — and — ” 

“ Tie mother’s bonnet for her, do ! She ’ll never get off. 
0, he says he ’s late to the train already ! Good by, 
mother ! ” 

‘ ‘ Good by — write — Bib — Baby — Alta — Y our father 
— Bag — Purse — up stairs — No, it is n’t — Be — good — 
girls — ” 

In a shower of forever uncompleted sentences mother 
rolled off. The tortured air quivered and sank into graceful 
silence. The frantic coachman lashed his horses up the hill, 
and Bib tumbled out of the window. 

Alta and I stayed only to see him picked up and tumbled 
in again, and then came slowly into the house and sat down, 
and drew the longest breath we ’d drawn since school was out. 

“ I do not regard,” said Alta, after a prolonged silence, in 
which she had sat fanning her blazing cheeks with a waste- 
paper basket, and pensively considering the entry-lamp, to 
which two pairs of forgotten shawl-straps, a rubber boot, the 
baby’s mosquito-netting, and a few other indispensables to 
the journey, yet hung as tender souvenirs of the inventive 
abilities of Bib, — “ I do not regard the Franco-Prussian war 
as an undertaking to be compared with the getting off of a 


THE CALICO PAPER. 


183 


woman and two children to the cars. An undertaking ? It 
was an episode ; an incident ; a diversion. Let Bismarck try 
it, that ’s all I have to say.” 

‘‘ At least, we have two weeks to recover in,” said I. 
“ That is something ; ‘ Do not let your blessings get mouldy,’ 
Mr. Beecher would say.” 

“ I don’t know what Mr. Beecher would say,” persisted 
Alta, determined to have it out with her idea, “ if he had it 
to do.” 

‘‘ But two weeks to rest, all alone in this house ! ” For 
father did n’t count ; he is so still ; any moonbeam makes as 
little fuss in a house, — and both are off all day. As for 
Emma Elizabeth, she takes the time when mother is gone to 
visit her relations, and speak in meeting, and burn the steak, 
and have hash every day, and is so seldom in the way at all 
that she does not interfere in the least with the dusting ; and 
manifests no intention of taking any responsibility as to the 
chamber-work or lamp-trimming. 

Two long, blessed weeks ! ” said Alta, when we drew 
breath again at night; it had taken all day to ‘‘pick up” 
after the departed travellers ; and the thermometer stood at 
96 ° in the shade of the great elm in the garden. 

“ What shall we do with ourselves ? Two weeks ! two 
weeks ! Why, Mari, when have we had two weeks to our- 
selves before ? ” 

“ Not since Bib was born, I ’m sure.” And I ’m sure, 
indeed, we had n’t. 


184 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


And yet I would n’t have you think we did n’t miss mother, 
for all that. We thought at first we should n’t, I admit. It 
was so like paradise not to hear the baby cry, and not to have 
to black Bib’s boots, and even not to have to do the dishes in 
the proper time, directly after breakfast, but to let them lie 
over all the next day if we wanted to, and nobody to tell us 
how terrible it was ! 

But when we went to bed it began to be a little lonely ; 
and when we got up the next day, it began to be a little 
more so. 

‘‘ Do you wish they were home again ? ” asked I. 

‘‘ Not yet,” said Alta, promptly. ‘‘ I ’d like to see them 
well enough, though. What shall we -do, Mari ? ” 

What should we do ? It was n’t as if we very often had 
the time to ask ourselves that question. It had only been 
How to do it? with us girls, for the most part, since we 
could remember. And now, when we had two weeks in 
which we had nobody but ourselves to please, there were 
such thousands of ways of being pleased ! 

‘‘ Millions ! ” sighed Alta. “ I have counted on making a 
fern-book for the next homoeopathic fair (I was so behindhand 
with the last one, and cockled up all my sumach). I have 
set my heart on feather-embroidering all my old plaited 
waists. I have promised Emma Elizabeth that I ’d pick all 
the corn and tomatoes. I told father I ’d clear up the chaise- 
house. The horse has got to be shod. I must have the 
buggy washered. I meant to paint the garden-fence, and if I 


THE CALICO PAPER. 


185 


don’t make up some calico wrappers before long, I shall have 
to tie myself into a pillow-case ; and if I don’t read Froude’s 
History, and begin Grote, and finish The Excursion, I shall 
become a raving imbecile before winter. Besides, — well, 
no, I believe that ’s all.” 

Perhaps it was from there being so many things to do that 
it was harder to know where to begin than not to do at all ; 
or, perhaps, because we were half sad to have been half glad 
that mother was gone ; but at all events, when Alta said the 
next morning, I know another thing I mean to do,” and I 
asked, ‘‘ What now ? ” and she said, ‘‘ We ’ll paper mother’s 
room before she comes back. We ’ll do it pretty soon. On 
the whole, we ’ll do it to-morrow. No, we won’t, we ’ll do it 
to-day, Mari,” it seemed to us both at once the most delight- 
ful thing to do it in all the world, and so much the most 
important, that we ran in in our wrappers, as soon as we heard 
father go down, to see about it. 

It ’s such an ugly paper,” said Alta, I always thought 
it accounted for the babies in our family having so much colic. 
Any baby of good taste would cry to lie and look at it for two 
years.” 

It was the ugliest paper ! First, there was green sky ; then 
came a blue rose-bush as tall as a poplar-tree ; a pink river 
ran under it, with a lavender bridge ; there was a yellow 
woman on the bridge, and the greenest man fishing in a black 
boat which was sailing, stern-foremost, into a wreath of 
potato-blossoms and tiger-lilies. The whole was netted in 


186 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


at intervals with a brown appearance, which Alta and I had 
grown up in the belief was spiders, but which mother said 
was either a bat or a man on the gallows ; father, on the 
contrary, stoutly maintained that it was gridirons. 

At this cheerful tapestry Alta and I gazed with a sudden 
vivacity not unmixed with despair. 

She never would paper it herself,’’ said Alta, ‘‘ never. 
But I wish we ’d ever papered anything but the tool-house.” 

We girls do a great many things at our house. It is partly 
because there is n’t much money ; but it ’s more because there 
are n’t any boys. That partly makes up, in my mind, for 
Bib’s being so near the baby, and choosing vacations 

to have mumps and measles in. If there had been a big 
brother in the family, I don’t suppose Ave should any more 
have thought we could paper a room than most of the girls 
we know. 

It has always been a notion of ours — more Alta’s, I think, 
than mine — to do some such little thing round home when 
anybody is off on a visit, for a surprise when he comes hack. 
Once we painted the front . entry for father in that way, — 
pearl tint and oak-staining ; it ’s really pretty. Another 
time we bought and put down a strip of hocking, where Bib 
had worn the front stair-carpet through. Then there were 
the curtains we hung at the parlor-windows, out of two old 
muslin dresses and a little chintz ; they ’ve lasted till now. 

Alta is assistant pupil, and I give music-lessons to the 
little Putty girls on Saturdays ; so we always have a little 
money of our own, when any such thing is going on. 


THE CALICO PAPER. 


187 


But to paper a room, — a live, respectable room ! It looked 
appalling at first. 

“ What if we should spoil it ? Twelve by fifteen, eight- 
foot post.” Alta flitted about in her white wrapper, with her 
little foot measure. “ Say eleven rolls, Mari ? Now, thirty 
cents a roll will get a lovely pattern, if you only think so — 
eleven tunes thirty — three dollars and thirty cents. A pa- 
perer would cost two dollars and a half, if he did n’t three. 
But for three dollars and thirty cents, Mari ! Turn father 
into the spare room, you see. Don’t you remember how glib 
the newspapers went on the tool-house ? I never yet saw the 
thing I could n’t do, if I would ^ Mari! We’ll go over to 
Henry Haspy’s this living morning.” 

When Alta has made up her mind to do a thing, she never 
stops to think again whether she can do it or not ; so over to 
Henry Haspy’s we went, as soon as the dishes were over. 
Emma Elizabeth, to be sure, raised grave objections to our 
leaving the front hall unswept and the currants for her to 
stem ; in fact, we escaped only on the ground of being in im- 
perative need of cheese to eat with the apple-pies, and were 
punished for our duplicity by finding a cold boiled-rice dessert 
on our return. 

Henry Haspy keeps the post-office in our town, and the 
store. He keeps calico and raisins and butter and tape and 
needles and molasses and wall-paper and perfumery and 
hooks and eyes ; and if there is anything which Henry 
Haspy does n’t keep, he is sure to have something which will 


188 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


answer your purpose just as well. Indeed, so ingenious is 
Henry Haspy in his exercise of this pliant disposition, so ac- 
commodating to find in a store-keeper, that when Alta asked 
him for cheese, he said No, he had n’t any cheese in to-day ; 
but he had some tallow-candles. Alta thanked him, and said 
she thought she would rather see his wall-papering. Henry 
Haspy had no sooner rolled out his paper-stands and whisked 
over his patterns, than we cried in one united breath : “0 
Alta!” ‘‘0 Mari!” 

How Henry Haspy ever happened on it, I don’t know ; but 
it was the loveliest thing ! Among a crowd of ninepenny 
dots, and shilling diamonds, and blue and yellow apples, and 
baskets of hollyhocks and imitation gilding, and numerous 
varieties of wall-paper art, such as only Henry Haspy could 
have selected, there lay a soft, soft, soft gray stripe ; the 
softest thing you can think of ; all the shades, from the 
lining of a dove’s breast to the lining of a thunder-cloud, and 
not a defined edge to them all ; they melted into each other, 
as grays melt in skies and water and on hills, so that where 
one ends and the other begins you cannot tell ; in the shining, 
silver centre of the pattern ran the only line in the whole, — ■ 
a fine, fearless finish of the color of cranberries in the sun. 

The gray carpet ! ” said Alta. 

“ The cranberry table-cloth ! ” said I. 

‘‘ Thirty-seven and a half cents,” said Henry Haspy. 

Who would think of seven and a half cents, in the face of 
such a happening ” as that ? Alta and I bought eleven rolls 


THE CALICO PAPER. 


189 


of the gray-and-cranberry stripe, and rode triumphantly home. 
Even our cold rice did not darken our horizon that happy 
morning. 

But, after all, the paper did n’t go up that day ; nor the 
next ; in fact, it was not till just before mother came home 
that it was fairly on. I don’t remember all the reasons ; but 
I know that father was taken sick that night, and was too 
sick to be turned out of the room for several days ; and then 
Uncle Belshazzar appeared with a cousin or two, to make a 
visit ; and the agent for Western seminaries stayed at our 
house, and Emma Elizabeth was called to the dying-beds of 
some half-dozen nieces, and things ran together as things al- 
ways do run together with Alta and me. 

But at last the paper went up. Alta and I were happy. 

It took us three days and a quarter to get it up, but we 
were happy. It gave us the headache and the back-ache ; 
and Alta took pleurisy from the open window, and I tipped 
over the steps and lamed my ankle, and the paste spilled 
down the register, and a friend of Alta’s (he ’s in a lawyer’s 
office down town) came to see us in the midst of it, and 
Emma Elizabeth asked him right up, where we stood in our 
old, unbelted wrappers, dripping with paste,, and scarlet with 
hurry, — Alta, on the steps, and I on the cutting-table ; but 
still Alta and I were happy. 

Nobody knows, who has not been a paperer, what a neat, 
brisk, clean, pleasant business it is. I often tell Alta we will 
set up for ourselves in it some time, when mother is dead. 


190 


tkotty’s wedding tour. 


and Bib is old enough to black his own boots, and women 
vote, and law-students feel differently about what their wives 
shall do. 

To be sure, there is the paste ; but you know it ’s only 
flour and water, if you will stop to think so. And to see the 
blank, spotty, ugly wall grow grand and fresh under your 
fingers quite makes up for the splash and splutter and the 
sweeping out. It ’s next to frescoing, I think. I like to do 
a thing in which you feel that you are making something 
over into something better. 

The gray shades went up like the mists for Alta and me ; 
there was not a wrinkle in the clean little cranberry line ; 
and dove’s breasts and thunder-clouds were glad together ” 
(as Miss Ingelow has it) all over mother’s little low room at 
last. She was coming in the morning train ; we were none 
too soon. 

“ Now^^ said Alta, “ we ’ll sweep out, and look at it ; then 
we ’ll put things to rights. Don’t let ’s look at it till we ’ve 
swept out.” 

I suppose it is sweeping — and — being a little dizzy, that 
makes — ” 

“ Makes what ? ” asked Alta, leaning on her broom. “ I 
told you not to look. I don’t see anything but a little crook- 
edness about the walls, which comes from being dizzy, as you 
say.” 

‘‘The cranberry line doesn’t seem exactly — straight — 
while one is sweeping and whirling about,” said I. “ It is 


THE CALICO PAPER. 


191 


funny, is n’t it ? Over there in the corner it seems to move 
in a most peculiar way.” 



“ I ’ll move you in a most peculiar way,” said Alta, decid- 
edly, ‘‘ if you find any crooks in this paper. It is put on as 
smooth as a skating-park. Shut your eyes till we get through, 
if you can’t see straighter than this.” 

I did shut my eyes in very despair, while we were moving 
in the bed and all the things. I thought I must be going to 


192 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


have an attack of apoplexy, there was such a remarkable look 
about that papering ! I turned to the right, to the left ; I sat 
down ; I stood up ; I went out ; I came in. Still something 
was wrong with the cranberry line. What was it ? Where 
was it ? How did it happen ? What did it mean ? 

With a little help from Emma Elizabeth (who occupied the 
time in informing us that she was going to take an evening 
out, and might as well go before supper ; she ’d set the table, 
and we could toast up our father’s bread and do the rest) we 
had the room all ready at last. 

The gray carpet was faultless of a shred ; the gray-tinted 
paint was spotlessly clean ; the cranberry table-cloth was on 
the table ; the pictures were hung ; the sun came in ; Alta 
tied the curtains with cranberry-colored ribbons, and laid 
upon the washstand some little gray-and-cranberry mats 
we ’d made. We had re-covered the pin-cushion too, with 
gray spatter-work (oak-leaves and acorns) on cranberry silk. 

Of course, I ’ve seen a great many grander rooms, but I 
never saw any room in my life which looked so prettily to me 
as that room did for about five minutes after it was all in 
order, and Alta and I had stepped out into the hall to take 
it in. 

‘‘ It looks like an October morning,” said Alta. 

It makes me think of some of Moore’s poems,” said I. 

‘‘ It ’s very pretty,” said Emma Elizabeth, peering through 
the banisters. Laws ! I had a calico dress just like it once, 
for all the world ! Do ye think ye ’ve put it on straight ? ” 

At this ominous question Alta and I exchanged glances. 


THE CALICO PAPER. 


193 


We went back into the room. The paper was put on 
straight ; we ran our fingers over it ; not a wrinkle ; no 
experienced paperer could have found fault ; but Emma 
Elizabeth was right, it did n’t look straight. 

The cranberry line danced before our eyes. We went to 
this corner, and that ; out and in and out again ; we sat on 
the window-sill ; we sat on the banisters ; we sat upon the 
floor ; upon the book-case ; if we ’d been boys, we should have 
stood on our heads to view that cranberry line. 

There was no mistake about it ; it waved before our eyes 
like a new-mown lawn. 

‘‘We are tired,” said Alta ; “ we ’ll come in again by and 
by.” 

By and by we went in once more ; and by and by again. 

Alas and alas for the beautiful cranberry line ! Did I say 
like a new-mown lawn ? Like a field of wheat before the 
breeze, like a loose carpet on a windy day, like the waves of a 
rising sea, like the billows of a furious storm. Turn whither- 
soever we would, our beautiful striped papel* swam, bubbled, 
rippled, rolled before our eyes. Alta turned pale. I think 
my complexion must have changed to a delicate green. 

“ The wall is uneven,” said Alta, with horrible calmness. 
“ I see now ; the house is old, Mari, and sunken ; the wall 
tips and sags ; the plastering bulges in and out. Anything 
but a stripe would have been lovely, but a stripe will go on 
forever — ever, — go on, go on, forever!” Alta tried to 
sing ; but she more nearly cried. 

9 M 


194 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


“ Perhaps it won’t always squirm,” said I, as we went out 
and closed the door. 

“ It will always squirm,” said Alta, in a hollow voice. 
‘‘We can only wait for mother now. We can see what she 
says. But it will always squirm.” 

Punctually from the morning train the coach rolled up to 
the door, to the music of the baby’s most familiar and most 
expressive soprano scream ; Bib, the bags, the lunch-box, the 
shawl-straps, and the umbrella bundled out and resumed their 
characteristic commotion in our quiet midst ; mother kissed 
us twice apiece, gave Alta her bonnet and me the baby, and 
went up stairs to put away her things. 

Alta and I lieard her from below : “ Why, girls ! Why, 
you girls I ” And for one delusive moment our hearts beat 
fast with a pleasure which, I fancy, only successful paper- 
hangers can ever experience. 

“ It ’s as pretty as a picture,” said mother, coming down. 
“I’m sure you are the best girls ! Such a surprise, too ! 
There ’s only one little thing I noticed, — a wrinkle in the 
cranberry line, Alta, over behind the washstand.” 

“ Ah ? ” said Alta, faintly. 

“ It can’t be,” said I, with a ghastly hypocrisy. 

“ Well, perhaps not,” said mother ; “ but I certainly 
thought the paper seemed to wriggle^ somehow. It gave me 
a dizzy feeling, after being in the cars. No doubt I shall get 
over it soon. It’s a little funny, — did you think of it? 
Emma Elizabeth had a calico dress just of that pattern once. 


THE CALICO PAPER. 


195 


It ’s quite a coincidence. But you ’re the dearest girls in the 
world ! ” 

In the gray of the early dawn next day, the dearest girls 
in the world were waked by a cry in which the petulance of 
bewilderment mingled with the hollowness of despair. 

Alta ! Girls ! Do come here and see to this calico 
paper ! What is the matter with it ? ” We rushed to the 
rescue. Mother lay groaning in agony on the bed. Had we 
poisoned her ? Alta went white to the lips. “ Oh ! ” groaned 
mother ; “ is there arsenic in it ? Why, no, there can’t be. 
Then I ’ve got delirium tremens, or a sick-headache. It 
writhes like a snake ! The wall goes in and out. I can’t 
hold my head up. If you don’t move me into the front room, 
I shall die ! Hang up some brown paper bags, or some 
“ Cliildren at Home,” — an Independent ” or two, — any- 
thing. All night I ’ve seen Emma Elizabeth on the walls 
trying to dress up a boa-constrictor in that dress of hers ! 0 

^irls I ” 

Alas and alas ! for doves’ breasts and thunder-clouds ; for 
morning mists and sailing fogs and cranberries in the sun ! 

Alta and I locked ourselves in with our “ calico paper,” as 
soon as mother was sleeping off her headache in the spare 
room. What to do next ? We were penniless and desperate. 
Here, however, was the room on our hands. Something must 
be done. Delay was dangerous to our sanity. 

That very noon, to crown our mortification, what must 
Emma Elizabeth do, but fish out her old dress from some 


196 


TROTTY S WEDDING TOUR. 


rag-bag or other where it had laid as a fossil for a season, 
and put it on ? Majestically upon her lank figure, the faded 
facsimile of our beautiful paper was now sailing about the 
house. 

This last touch was too much. It did not break the camel’s 
back ; it only aroused the camel’s intellect to a fierce and 
unparalleled ingenuity. 

“ Mari,” said Alta, solemnly, “ we must have this room 
re-papered before dark to-night.” 

“ Very well, Alta. Shall we beg ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Steal ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Very well, Alta. Order a velvet-and-gilt tapestry, from 
the King of the Witches ? ” 

“ Order something plain from Henry Haspy’s. I think, if 
you will offer to tend store for him for three days (and let 
him off to the cattle-show), I will make hay for Mr. Putty 
for a week. That would bring us enough, and something 
over for peanuts. Mr. Putty asked me the other day to help 
him with his hay ; of course, he had n’t an idea I ’d do it ; 
but I kept it in my mind, — I ’d just as lief. You don’t mind 
tending store a couple of days ! ” 

“ N-not very much.” 

“ Well, then ! ” 

“ Well, then ! ” 

“ We ’ll go and get the paper this minute, and stop at Mr. 


THE CALICO PAPER 


197 


Putty’s on the way home. Before dark we ’ll be all right, or 
I ’ll cut my own acquaintance ! ” 

It is the truth that before dark we had bargained with Mr. 
Haspy, bargained with Mr. Putty, brought home a pale, 
pretty, simple green paper, as indefinite as a tint and far 
more durable, and with it had covered with our own hands 
the calico paper forever from mortal vision. 

The furniture was in, the cranberry cloth, ribbons, mats, 
and fixings, in their places ; we added a green-thread mat 
from our own room, and Alta’s great green ivy, six yards 
long, to hang against the pallid undertint of the walls, — and 
mother, having cured her headache with a pellet of Nux^ slept 
in her own room that night the sleep of the just. 


198 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


DEB. 


WONDER,” said Deb. And she did wonder, very 



j- much. What about ? I think that she hardly knew 
herself. She only knew that she wondered — and wondered. 

All the world was a wonder, — the great, soft, shining 
snow-drift that curled up against the fence opposite her 
window ; the beautiful whirlpool that the snow made when 
the wind was up ; the ice in the streets, and the little girls 
that tripped on it, and the little boys that did n’t ; the 
cross grocer who brought flour and beans into Brick Alley 
every morning ; the pleasant baker who sometimes tossed 
her up a seed-cake through the window ; the factory-girls 
with the little pink bows on their nets, who strolled by in 
the evening after mills were out, and laughed so that she 
could hear them quite plainly, or sang a little, — and she 
could hear that quite plainly too ; the skies when they made 
faces at her through the square top of the alley, — gray and 
silver and blue faces, or flame-colored and gold faces, or black 
faces, or faces crowned all about with stars ; the river too, all 
that she could see of it, and that was just a crack away be- 
tween two houses, and a crack of slope that banked it in. In 
winter the slope was shining white, and in summer it was 


DEB. 


199 


shining green ; and as for the crack of a river, sometimes that 
was white too, and sometimes it was green or purple or gray 
or blue ; and sometimes it tossed about, and sometimes it was 
as still as Deb herself. That was all she knew about the 
river. And so she wondered. 

But most of all she wondered about the bells. The town 
was full of bells. There were bells in the streets, and bells, 
she had heard, to the mills, and bells, she thought, to the 
river too ; but all the bells that she knew about belonged to 
the grocer and the baker, and these she had never done very 
much more than wonder at, after all, for they were two 
stories down in the yard, and she was in her high chair by 
the window. 

Now this, you see, was why Deb wondered. She never got 
out of that high chair by the window, except to get into her 
bed. And she never had been anywhere in all her life except 
into that chair and into bed. And she was fifteen years 
old. 

The bed and the chair and the window were all that Deb 
had, except a mother, and she did n’t amount to much, for 
she was busy and worried and hurried and sick and anxious 
and poor, — very poor, and the room was full of children who 
could run out to see the bells and knew all about the river, 
and who never wondered ; so, when she had put Deb out of 
her bed into her chair, or out of her chair into her bed, she 
thought no more about her ; so, as I say, she did n’t amount 
to much. 


200 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


Deb was not ugly to see, — except for the curve in her poor 
shoulders, and her little soft, white, withered feet that hung 
down useless from her high chair. In the face. Deb was not 
ugly at all to see. She had soft hair, and her cheeks were 
white and clean, and her eyes had grown so large and blue 
with fifteen years’ full of wonder, that, if you were once to 
see them, you would never forget them as long as you 
lived. 

A young lady that I heard of will never forget them as 
long as she lives, and you shall hear about her presently. 

In the daytime Deb shut her eyes and tried to think what 
it would be like to run about with the children who did not 
wonder ; to see streets, or a crowd, or a church-spire, or a 
funeral, or people going to a wedding, and other strange 
things of which the children who did not wonder talked 
to each other ; and which, because her eyes were shut, she 
saw or seemed to see, and yet always knew that she never 
saw them all. 

At night she liked to open her eyes, and to lie with them 
open a long, late time, after the children who did not wonder 
were asleep. She liked to open her eyes at night, because 
then the two things that she liked best happened, — the dark 
and the bells. It seemed, indeed, that, the darker it was, 
the more bells there were always. First, there were the 
mill-bells, in the early winter dusk ; they rang very hard and 
very merrily, to let the factory-girls go home to put the little 
pink bows upon their nets. Then there were church-bells ; they 


DEB. 


201 


rang very heavily and respectably to call people to the weekly 
prayer-meetings, but they did not call the girls in tlie little 
pink bows. Sometimes there were fire-bells, that shrieked 
at Deb out of a yellow sky and frightened her. At nine 
o’clock, when it was darkest. Deb heard the closest, pleasant- 
est, awfullest bell of all. This was the great Androscoggin 
bell, the largest in New England. Deb held her breath — 
every night she held her breath — to listen to this bell. It 
was more like a voice than a bell. Sometimes the little 
cripple thought it cried. Sometimes she thought it prayed. 
But she never heard it laugh. The streets, the river, the 
crowd, weddings, funerals, church-spires, all the strange 
things that Deb in the daytime saw with her eyes shut, 
came, or seemed to come, at night, when her eyes were open, 
and talk to her — but always prayed or cried and never 
smiled — out of the solemn Androscoggin bell. 

The solemn Androscoggin bell was ringing the mill-girls in 
by broad sunlight one noon, a little testily, when there came 
a knock at the door, and behind it the young lady of whom 
I heard. Deb was startled by the knock, and frightened by 
the young lady. It was not often that visitors came to Brick 
Alley, and it was still less often that Brick Alley had a 
visitor who knocked. 

This was a young lady for whom Deb’s mother did fine 
washing. Deb’s mother wiped her hands and a chair, and 
the young lady sat down. She was a straight young lady 
with strong feet, and long brown feathers in her hat, and soft 

9 * 


202 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


brown gloves upon her hands. She had come, she said, with 
that Cluny set which she found that she should need for a 
party this very night ; indeed, she was in so much haste for it 
that she had hunted Deb’s mother up, — which was a matter 
of some difficulty, as she had never had the least idea where 
she lived before, and how crooked the stairs were ; but the 
lace was very yellow, — as she saw, — and would she be sure 
to have it done by nine o’clock to-night ? and — 

And then, turning her head suddenly, the straight young 
lady saw poor crooked Deb in her high chair, with the wonder 
in her eyes. 

“ Dear me ! ” said the straight young lady. 

‘‘ I wonder if I frightened her,” thought Deb. But she 
only wondered, and did not speak. 

“ Is this your — ” 

“ Yes,” said Deb’s mother, “ the oldest. Fifteen. I ’ll 
try my best, ma’am, but I don’t know as I ’d ought to prom- 
ise.” She spoke in a business-like tone, and turned the 
Cluny lace — a dainty collar and a pair of soft cuffs — about 
in her hands in a business-like way. A breath of some kind 
of scented wood struck, in a little gust, against Deb’s face. 
She wondered how people could weave sweet smells into a 
piece of lace, and if the young lady knew ; or if she knew how 
much pleasanter it was than the onions that Mrs. McMahoney 
cooked for dinner every day in the week but Sunday, upon 
the first floor. But it gave her quite enough to do to won- 
der without speaking. 


DEB. 


203 


‘‘ Fifteen ! ” repeated the young lady, standing up very 
straight, and looking very sorry. ‘‘ How long has she been 
— like — that ? ” 

“ Born so,” said Deb’s mother. “ She ’s jest set in that 
chair ever sence she ’s ben big enough to set at all. Would 
you try gum on these, miss ? ” 

‘‘ But you neVer told me that you had a crippled child ! ” 
The young lady said this quickly. ‘‘You have washed for 
me three years, and never told me that you had a crippled 
child ! ” 

“ You never asked me, miss,” said Deb’s mother. 

The young lady made no reply. She came and sat down 
on the edge of Deb’s bed, close beside Deb’s chair. She 
seemed to have forgotten all about her Cluny lace. She took 
Deb’s hand up between her two soft brown gloves, and her 
long brown feathers drooped and touched Deb’s cheek. Deb 
hardly breathed, the feathers and the gloves, and the sweet 
smells of scented woods, and the young lady’s sorry eyes — 
such very sorry eyes ! — were so close to the high chair. 

“ Fifteen years ! ” repeated the young lady, very low. “ In 
that chair — and nobody ever — poor little girl, poor little 
girl ! ” 

What was the matter with the straight young lady ? All 
at once her bright brown feathers and her soft brown gloves 
grew damp in little spots. Deb wondered very much over the 
damp little spots. 

“ But you could ride ! ” said the young lady, suddenly. 


204 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


“ I don’t know, ma’am,” said Deb. ‘‘ I never saw anybody 
ride but the grocer and the baker. I ain’t like the grocer 
and the baker.” 

‘‘ You could be lifted, I mean,” said the young lady, 
eagerly. “ There is somebody who lifts you ? ” 

‘‘ Mother sets me generally,” said Deb. “ Once when she 
was very bad with a lame ankle Jim McMahoney set me. 
He ’s first floor — Jim McMahoney.” 

‘‘ I shall be back here,” said the young lady, still speaking 
very quickly, but speaking to Deb’s mother now, in just an 
hour. I shall come in an easy sleigh with warm robes. If 
you will have your daughter ready to take a ride with me, I 
shall be very much obliged to you.” 

The young lady finished her sentence as if she did n’t know 
what to say, and so said the truest thing she could think of, 
— which is what we are all in danger of doing at times. 

Well, I ’m sure ! ” said Deb’s mother. ‘‘ Dabittra, tell 
the lady — ” 

But Dabittra could not tell the lady, for she was already 
out of the door, and down stairs, and away into the street. 
And indeed Deb could not have told the lady — has never 
told the lady — can never tell the lady. 

If all the blue of summer skies and the gold of summer 
sunlight and the shine of summer stars fell down into your 
hands at once, for you to paint scrap-books with, should you 
know what to say ? 

Into the poor little scrap-book of Deb’s life the colors of 


DEB. 


205 


Heaven dropped and blinded her, on that bewildering, beau- 
tiful, blessed ride. 

In just an hour the sleigh was there, with the easiest 
cushions, and the warmest robes, and bells, — the merriest 
bells ! — and the straight young lady. And Jim McMahoney 
was there, and he carried her down stairs to ‘‘ set ” her. And 
her mother was there, and wrapped her all about in an old 
red shawl, for Deb had no “ things,” like other little girls. 
The young lady had remembered that, and she had brought 
the prettiest little white hood that Deb ever saw, and Deb’s 
face looked like a bruised day-lily bud between the shining 
wool, but Deb could not see that ; and Mrs. McMahoney was 
there, paring onions at the door, to wish her good luck ; and 
all the little McMahoneys were there, and all the children 
who did not wonder, and the grocer turned in at the alley 
corner, and the baker stopped as he turned out, and every- 
body stood and smiled to see her start. The white horse 
pawed the snow and held up his head, — Deb had never seen 
such a horse, — and the young lady gathered the reins into 
her brown gloves, and the sleigh-bells cried for joy, — how 
they cried ! — and away they went, and Deb was out of the 
alley in a minute, and the people in the alley hurrahed, 
and hurrahed, and hurrahed to see her go. 

That bewildering, beautiful, blessed ride ! How warm the 
little white hood was ! how the cushions sank beneath her, 
and the fur robes opened like feathers to the touch of her 
poor thin hands ! How the bells sang to her, and the snow- 



206 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


drifts blinked at her, and the icicles and the slated roofs and 
sky, and the people’s faces smiled at her ! 

‘‘ What is the matter ? ” asked the young lady ; for Deb 
drew the great gray wolf’s-robe over her face and head ; and 
sat so, for a minute, still and hidden. The young lady thought 
that she was frightened. 

‘‘ But I only want to cry a little ! ” said Deb’s little 
smothered voice. “ I must cry a little first ! ” 

When she had cried a little, she held up her head, and the 
shine of her pretty white hood grew faint beside the shine of 
her eyes and cheeks. That bewildering, beautiful, blessed 
ride ! 

Streets and a crowd and church-spires were in it, — yes, 
and a wedding and a funeral too ; all that Deb had seen in 
her high chair in the daytime, with her eyes shut, she saw in 
the sleigh on that ride, with her happy eyes open wide. 

She sat very still. The young lady did not talk to her, 
and she did not talk to the young lady. They rode and rode. 
The horse held up his head. It seemed to Deb that he was 
flying. She thought that he must be like the awful, beautiful 
white horse in Revelation. She felt as if he could take her 
to heaven just as well as not, if the young lady’s brown gloves 
should only pull the rein that way. 

They rode and rode. In and out of the merry streets, 
through and through the singing bells, about and about the 
great church-spires, — all over and over and over the laugh- 
ing town. They rode to the river, and the young lady 


DEB. 


207 , 


stopped the white horse, so that Deb could look across, and 
up and down, at the shining stream and the shining bank. 

‘‘ Ther ’s so much of it ! ” said Deb, softly, thinking of the 
crack of it that she had seen between two houses for fifteen 
years. For the crack seemed to her very much like fifteen 
years in a high chair ; and the long, broad-shouldered, sil- 
vered river seemed to her very much like this world about 
which she had wondered. 

They rode to the mills, and Deb trembled to look up at 
their frowning walls, and to meet their hundred eyes, for the 
windows stared like eyes ; but some of the girls who wore the 
little pink bows, and who knew her, came nodding to look 
down out of them, and she left off trembling to laugh ; then 
in a minute she trembled again, for all at once, without any 
warning, great Androscoggin pealed the time just over her 
head, and swallowed her up in sound. She turned pale with 
delighted terror, and then she flushed with terrified delight. 

Did it pray? or cry? or laugh ? Deb did not know. It 
seemed to her that, if the white horse would carry her into 
the sound of that bell, she need never sit in a high chair at 
a window again, but ride and ride with the young lady. It 
seemed to her like forever and forever. 

They turned away from Androscoggin without speaking, 
and rode and rode. Daylight dimmed and dusk dropped, 
and see! all the town blazed with lights. They rode and 
rode to see the lights. Deb could not speak — there were so 
many lights. 


208 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


And still she could not speak when they rode into Brick 
Alley, and Jim McMahoney and her mother and the chil- 
dren who did not wonder came out to meet her, and take her 
back to her high chair. 

She was too happy to speak. She need never wonder any 
more. She could remember. 

But the young lady did not want her to speak. She 
touched her white horse, and was gone in a minute ; and 
when Androscoggin rung them both to sleep that night — 
for the young lady forgot to ask for her Cluny, and was too 
tired to go to the party — I am sure I cannot tell which was 
the happier, she or Deb. Androscoggin did not trouble him- 
self to find out. All he said was. Forever and forever. Deb 
knows. She heard him. She had no need to wonder about 
him any more. She understood. 

And this is all I have to tell. Whether the young lady 
took Deb to ride again or whether she did n’t — this is all I 
have to tell. It is a very little thing to have to tell, but when 
it was told to me, I thought it was the sweetest, saddest, 
tenderest little thing in the world. 

“ If you had n’t said anything about it, I ’d have cried,” 
observed Trotty, when they had finished the story of Deb. In 
his heart he wondered if Deb ever fought a duel ; but he did 
not say so. 


THE GKEAT WOODCHUCK SOCIETY. 


209 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE LAST STORY. 


HEY had now come to their last chapter in the story 



I book. Everybody was on hand to look after it. Even 
Max, who had fallen off in his interest in the printing-office, 
rather disgracefully came up to help. They printed the story 
out entire with unusual care. They were all a little sorry, 
and all a little glad, to have finished. It so happened that 
the “ boy or girl ” question was very well disposed of in tins 
story, as Lill reminded Trotty in a decided tone. 


THE GREAT WOODCHUCK SOCIETY. 


All the boys sat upon the fence. All the girls were in the 
school-house entry. 

All the boys had on their leather boots f they kicked their 
feet against the fence, and swung them to and fro. All the 
girls were hunting for their rubbers ; they wound their curls 
about their fingers while they hunted. 

All the boys were talking. All the girls were whispering. 
All the boys were talking very loud, and very much at once. 
All the girls were whispering very low, and they nodded to 
each other one by one. 


N 


210 


TROTTY S WEDDING TOUR. 


All the boys looked as if they were going to have “ a time.” 
All the girls looked as if they wished they were. The boys 
were whistling. The girls hummed a little tune. The boys 
had forgotten all about the girls. But the girls had not for- 
gotten about the boys. In short, all the girls belonged to the 
Tatting Club. But all the boys belonged to the Woodchuck 
Society. 

And it was Wednesday afternoon. And the skies were as 
clear as if they had taken the day to clean up their silver. 
And this is the veracious and accurate account of what hap- 
pened. 

All the boys stopped talking. All the girls stopped whis- 
pering. The boys got down from the fence. The girls came 
out of the school-house entry. The boys splashed into the 
mud — for a summer rain had fallen just before the silver-clean- 
ing in the skies — with their great boots. The girls hopped 
along on one foot, pulling on their last rubber as they hopped. 

How they got there, I don’t know, hopping and pulling 
their rubbers on ; but when the boys swung through the 
school-yard posts they found the girls there, drawn up in a 
line before them. 

“ Your pleasure, ladies ? ” said the Chairman of the Wood- 
chuck Society. He took off his hat. 

‘‘ We would like to join the Woodchuck Society, if you 
please,” said the President of the Tatting Club. 

‘‘ Nonsense ! ” said the Chairman of the Woodchuck So- 
ciety. “ You would wet your feet.” He spoke impressively. 


THE GREAT WOODCHUCK SOCIETY. 


211 


“ 0, we have our rubbers,” said the President of the Tat- 
ting Club. She spoke sadly. 

‘‘ You ’d get freckled,” said the Chairman of the Wood- 
chuck Society. 

‘‘ 0, we ’ll wear our veils,” said the President of the Tat- 
ting Club. She wore a little blue veil, herself; the Wood- 
chuck Society noticed something that they liked about the 
pink line that her cheek drew against the blue veil; the 
Chairman in particular observed this pink line. 

“ But you don’t know anything about woodchucks,” said 
he, after some thought. 

‘‘ But we can learn,” said she. 

The woods are wet,” said he. 

The school-house entry is hot,” said she. 

“ Girls are better off at home,” said he. 

But she only said, Do you think so ? Now, we don’t.” 

‘‘ You are n’t made to catch woodchucks,” said he. 

Are you ? ” asked she. 

The Chairman of the Woodchuck Society coughed. That 
question,” said he, ‘‘ is ir-rel-evant. In short, ladies, your 
request is pre-post-erous, for two — in short — reasons. In 
the first place, ladies, you are unacquainted with the very 
first principles necessary to the art of catching woodchucks.” 

“ Sir,” said the President of the Tatting Club, smiling 
through her blue veil, “ so were you, when you began to learn. ’f 

‘‘ And in the next place,” continued the Chairman, loftily, 
‘‘ if you did know how to catch a woodchuck,, you could n’t 


212 


TROTTY’S wedding tour. ' 


kill a woodchuck ; now you know you could n’t ! I put it to 
your honor, ladies, could you ? ” 

The President of the Tatting Club shuddered under her 
soft blue veil. It was a tough question. On her honor, could 
she ? The Tatting Club retired to the wood-pile to consider. 
The Woodchuck Society swung on the gate, and considered too. 

‘‘ The fact is,” said the Chairman, under his breath, I ’ve 
half a mind to take ’em along.” 

And, besides,” the President was saying, under her 
breath, “ what of that ? Time enough for that^ is n’t there ? ” 

‘‘ Time enough for that,” nodded the Tatting Club. 

“ Well, then ! ” said the President. 

Well, then ? ” said the Chairman. 

The Tatting Club descended from the wood-pile ; the Presi- 
dent smiled sweetly through her thin blue veil. 

‘‘We have come to the conclusion, sir,” she said, “ that if 
you will admit us into the Society, the matter of — of — kill- 
ing a woodchuck need not stand at all in the way.” 

“ Not at all in the way,” nodded the Tatting Club. 

“ In that case,” said the Chairman, hesitating, “ I don’t 
know but we may as well give you a try.” 

This is how the Tatting Club obtained admission to the 
Woodchuck Society on that Wednesday afternoon, when the 
sky cleaned up her silver, and the mud-puddles lay in the 
school-house yard. 

Never had the Tatting Club spent such a Wednesday after- 
noon. They nodded to each other to make sure of that. The 


THE GKEAT WOODCHUCK SOCIETY. 


213 


wet grass was so cool, and the wet air so sweet, and the wind 
made such a piece of silver-soap as the Tatting Club had never 
seen before. And the trap lay in such a lovely knot of woods ! 
And it was such fun to climb the fences, and to push through 
the thickets, and to scramble over the brooks, and to take the 
strong west- wind into their lungs, and the broad high sun 
upon their heads ! The Tatting Club were united in the opin- 
ion that they had never spent such a Wednesday afternoon. 

“ It is better than making tatting in the school-house en- 
try,” said the President. 

Never had the Woodchuck Society spent such a Wednesday 
afternoon. It is as well to admit that. The Chairman 
admitted it very soon. He walked by the side of the Presi- 
dent ; he found a great deal to say ; it was better than mop- 
ing along alone with the boys ; it was almost as well as 
skinning the woodchuck, in fact ; he wondered that he had 
never thought of it before. It was quite true. Never had 
the Woodchuck Society spent such a Wednesday afternoon. 

“ 0, to think of killing him in such a pretty place ! ” said 
the President of the Tatting Club, sighing, as she and her 
blue veil fluttered into the sweet green darkness of the spot, 
over crushed ferns and the ruins of little foxberry blossoms 
that turned wax-white at sight of her, and fainted before the 
feet of the Woodchuck Society fell across their blanched faces. 

! The Woodchuck Society heard this remark, and wished 
they had left the Tatting Club at home. 

Suddenly the Chairman stopped. So did the President. 


214 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


So did the entire Society. They stopped before the trunk of 
an old hollow tree, wound about with red and brown and 
pale-green mosses, and overgrown with ivy-leaves so heavy 
that they looked as if they had been carved out of malachite. 
The trunk was split and wrenched open to the roots. The 
woodchuck’s hole ran down below them ; the trap had been 
set about two feet from the hole. 

“ Gunder and thuns ! ” said the Chairman ; it was a very 
unchairmanlike expression, but he used it. “ He ’s gone ! ” 
Who ? What ? Where ? ” 

“ The trap ’s gone ! ” 

And the woodchuck ! ” 

‘‘ I declare ! ” 

‘‘ So it has ! ” 

And so it had. The hole was covered. 

“ He ’s got another down the gully,” said the Chairman. 

We ’ll get him ! Hi ! Ho there ! What ? Where ? ” 

“ Here I ” shouted a ringing voice. It was the voice of the 
President of the Tatting Club. 

I ’ve found him ! ” 

And so she had ; while the Chairman stopped to say 
‘‘ Gunder and thuns ! ” In a tangle of blackberry and juni- 
per bushes, caught in the trap by one leg, his black nose on 
the ground, and his black eyes on her, she had found him, 
sure enough. 

The Woodchuck Society felt rather glad, on the whole, that 
they had brought the Tatting Club along. 


THE GKEAT WOODCHUCK SOCIETY. 


215 


They rushed up to see. They were just too late. Every- 
body was just too late. Wh-e-ew ! Whiz-z ! Whir-r-r ! A 
click, a squeal, a spring ! 

‘‘ He ’s doubled ! ” cried the Chairman. 

To be sure he had. 

Away like a shot ! Away like a flash of sullen anger ! 
Two little claws left sticking in the trap, and that was all. 

The entire Woodchuck Society gave chase. So did the 
Tatting Club. Nobody stopped to think which could run the 
fastest. But without stopping to think, the President and 
the Chairman found themselves in the lead. The Chairman 
had the start. The President bounded after him. He leaped 
a fence. She slipped under. He waded through a ditch. She 
jumped from stone to stone. He bounded over a stone wall 
like a big Newfoundland dog. She flew over like a butterfly. 
He wet his feet. So did she. He did n’t care. Neither did 
she. They gained on the little angry flash, that cut under 
fallen leaves and in twists of boughs and berries, and under 
trunks and stones before them. 

Moreover, the President gained on the Chairman ; a foot 
— a rod — two — two and a half. 

How she did it, who can tell ? She dodged a hickory, she 
leaped a bar, she watched a chance, she knelt and crouched, 
she held her breath : panting, terrified, off his guard, think- 
ing himself forgotten, the woodchuck actually came quivering 
round a great gray stone, and walked right into the Presi- 
dent’s apron ! 


216 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


When the Chairman came — breathless ^ — up, he found her 
sitting there and holding it. Her little blue veil was off. 
She had taken it long ago to tie her hat on with. But she 



was not freckled, though her pink cheeks shone like little 
colored worlds. 

‘‘ Does he bite ? ’’ asked the Chairman. 

‘‘ N-not much,” said the President. 

But there was blood upon her hands and apron. To tell 
the truth, if the Chairman had been a minute later, I doubt 
if he would have seen that woodchuck. 


THE GREAT WOODCHUCK SOCIETY. 


217 


‘‘ You ’ve done very well,” said the Chairman, approvingly. 
‘‘ I could n’t have done better myself. Is he fat ? Let me 
see. Will he skin easy ? ” 

The colored worlds went out on the President’s soft cheeks. 
She turned as pale as the little foxberry flowers that the 
Woodchuck Society had left fainting under their heavy feet. 

“ Skin?^’ said the President. ‘‘Oh! Two claws off al- 
ready ; and such a palpitation of the heart, just hear him 1 
and such a pretty gray-brown fur ! Skin him ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said the Chairman, a little out of temper. 
“ Give him to me. I ’ll skin him. You need n’t. I don’t 
know but you ’ve done your share. You ’ve done very well. 
I ’ll skin him myself. But of course he must be skinned. 
Who ever heard of a Woodchuck Society that did n’t skin its 
woodchucks ? ” 

But the President held the fierce little quivering ‘creature 
in her apron tight and resolute. How she did it, I don’t 
know. If you were to say that a girl never did it before nor 
since, I should not deny you. 

“ Now look here, I ’ve caught this woodchuck, have n’t I ? ” 

“ Ye-es.” 

“ Fair ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And honest ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then I say it ’s fair and honest for me to have my say 
about him. Yes, I do. Now I say — ” 

10 


218 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


“ Wliat do you say ? ’’ said the Chairman, standing on his 
head in very despair ; what could he do ? The girl was right. 
Unquestionably she had caught the woodchuck. 

“ I say, don’t skin him ! ” 

‘‘ What would you do with him ? ” 

The Chairman came down on his feet with a whack from 
sheer force of curiosity. 

‘‘ I ’d let him go,” said the President, with much calmness. 
The mischief you would ! ” said the Chairman. 

“ I would let him go,” said the President, sweetly. ‘‘ I 
would n’t be such a wicked, cruel, tormenting, heartless — ” 

“ Look here,” said the Chairman, coloring, I guess you ’ve 
called me names enough. I guess you may as well let the 
thing go.” 

Open flew the President’s apron. Out whirred a little 
brown-gray flash ; it lighted the underbrush a minute, and 
was gone. 

“ Well,” said the Chairman, slowly, as he watched it, 
“ now we ’re in a pretty fix. We ’ve let you into the Society, 
and you would n’t have the woodchuck killed. You ’ll never 
have the woodchucks killed, and then what is the use in chas- 
ing woodchucks ? And here comes the Society, at the top of 
their wind, and a pretty story I shall have to tell them ! ” 
Leave it to me,” said the President ; “ I ’ll tell them.” 

And quick enough she was out by the fence, and when 
the united Woodchuck and Tatting Societies came panting 
up she addressed them with a how and a sweet smile. 


THE GREAT WOODCHUCK SOCIETY. 


219 


‘‘ Ladies and gentlemen : The woodchuck is gone. We 
caught him between us. (She modestly omitted to mention 
the little circumstance connected with her apron.) ‘‘ We 
caught him together, ladies and gentlemen. And we ’ve let 
him go. We thought we would n’t — skin him. It sounded 
so ! And he ’d lost two claws, ladies and gentlemen, and 
was in great pain and terror. So we let him go. And we ’ve 
decided, ladies and gentlemen, to let them all go. We will 
catch no more woodchucks. It must be so unpleasant to be 
a woodchuck and be — skinned^ ladies and gentlemen ! Con- 
sequently, we have decided to give up the woodchucks, and 
to have a picnic at five o’clock precisely, five cents’ subscrip- 
tion all around, and lemonade and nuts.” 

(The Chairman had never heard of this before, looked 
visibly agitated, but not ill-pleased.) 

“And, ladies and gentlemen, rather than to — skin any 
more poor little brown-gray woodchucks with two claws gone, 
we have decided to unite the Woodchuck and Tatting Asso- 
ciations into one united Picnic Club ” (evident surprise on 
the countenance of the Chairman). “ You will please to 
elect your officers at your pleasure, ladies and gentlemen ; 
and also a Branch Department, to which we may connect a 
Base-ball Ground and a Skating Rink, — and not too many 
nuts, on account of a headache Thursday morning.” 

The President of the extinct Tatting Club sat down on the 
fence amidst great applause. Her motion was seconded, car- 
ried, and executed with despatch ; indeed, the girls seemed 


220 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


in no wise taken by surprise by it, and the boys in no wise 
loath. So they went to the picnic at five o’clock, and the 
sky threw away her silver-soap, for the clouds shone so that 
the crippled woodchuck, panting and resting under a great 
soft mullein-leaf, could have seen his own ugly little face in 
them if he had been tall enough. 

And that is how the Great Woodchuck Society came to an 
end in that school forevermore. 

The red and gold covers were produced, when this story 
was printed, with great ceremony. The children’s mother 
came up herself and trimmed and stitched for them. It was, a 
gorgeous book. To be sure. Max said it looked like a turkey- 
cock, and somebody asked if it had the scarlet-fever, and 
Trotty was driven out of his senses by inquiries as to how 
large his advance orders had been ; — but it was a gorgeous 
book. 

They swept out the printing-office; they put away the 
press ; they wheeled Trotty’s chair down stairs. Trotty was 
able to walk now, — almost as well as ever. He made a 
procession of his compositors, and solemnly marched down 
stairs at its head, with his book on his head. I have had the 
book photographed by the most expensive (and the crossest) 
photographer whom I could find, and engraved by the most 
conscientious engraver who was to be heard of for love or 
money. She (it was a lady, as all conscientious people are) 
read all the stories through from beginning to end, before she 


THE GREAT WOODCHUCK SOCIETY. 


221 


SO much as sharpened her pencil or chose her block. She 
observed that if she knew what w'as inside of it, she might 
then, and only then, be able to do justice to the outside. This 
struck me as true of so many other things besides Trotty- 
books, that we invited the engraver to our house to stay a 
year, in hopes that we might learn something else from her 
as wise as that. So far, she has not thought of anything 
quite equal to it. 

Here is the book. 



222 


TKOTTY S WEDDING TOUll. 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE WEDDING TOUR. 



AROTTY was well. The story-book was printed, was 


JL handed around, was lent to the neighbors, was laid on 
the table, was knocked off and walked on, and was laid away 
in the best bookcase to be kept nicely and forgotten, — it 
means the same thing ; the garret had been a mud-bakery, 
had been a state-prison, a church-vestry, a circus, a poultry- 
show, and a picture-gallery since the printing-office was moved 
out. The world was going on quite as usual. A great many 
things were happening. In fact, everything had happened 
but the wedding tour. 

So Trotty never took any, after all ? 

Well ; he did and he did n’t. You might call it a wedding 
tour, or you might not. In either case, you would not be far 
from right. 

To tell the exact truth, Trotty forgot it. This was partly 
Merle’s fault. She only came to see him those three times 
while he was sick, and when he got well he heard that she 
had been writing notes to the other boys at recess. 

This was a blow ; but worse was to come. 

Nate came over one day, and prepared him for it ; I suppose 
he tried to break it gently. He said : — 

“ I suppose you know Merle is married again. Trot ? ” 

‘‘ Married ! ” said Trotty. 


THE WEDDING TOUR. 


223 


‘‘ Well, as good as,” said Nate; ‘‘going to be, when she 
gets through her education. And her father ’s going to order 
the reception dinner from Boston. Nita says she ’s going to 
wear white satin. She ’s awful set up.” 

“ The deception dinner ! ” said Trotty, hoarsely. “ White 
satin! Married! Who’s the man?” 

“ 0, I thought you knew that,” said Nate. “ It ’s Pompey 
Merino.” 

“ Well — ” said Trotty after a long silence, “ I never did 
fink so much of that girl as I purtended to. If it had n’t 
been for the jelly-cake, I would n’t have cared.” 

“ / ’ll take you on a wedding tour,” said his mother that 
afternoon, seeing that he looked a little sober about the cor- 
ners of the mouth, — not that he minded about Merle now, 
but Pompey ! That it should always be Pompey who got 
the best of everything ! 

“ I ’ll go with you on a journey,” said his mother ; “ it will 
be a wide world nicer. It is so silly for little boys and girls 
to play such notions, Trotty ! Come ! don’t you feel a lit- 
tle bit foolish about Merle ? ” 

“ Merle was the foolest^’’ pleaded Trotty, “ owning up,” 
however, by the brightest, reddest, prettiest little flash of 
color that went travelling all over his cheeks and up to hide 
among the ruin of what had been his long curls. Max had 
them cut off. 

“ The woman that thou gavest me ! ” laughed his mother. 

“ What um ? ” asked Trotty, blankly. 

“ Where shall we go, for our journey ? ” said his mother. 


224 


trotty’s wedding tour. 


“ Nita and Nate — and Lill ? ” asked Trotty. 

Perhaps so. On the whole — yes. Next Wednesday will 
be your birthday. And you ’ve been sick and shut up so long. 
Yes, — you may choose just the thing you would like the 
best to do, and we will do it.” 

“The z;e-rybest? ” demanded Trotty, flushing again. ‘‘Any- 
thing ? ” 

“ Yes ; for once.” 

“ Oh! ” said Trotty, with a long, long sigh in which the 
anguish of hope deferred and the dash of unexpected joy 
struggled for utterance. “ If I could do the thing I ’d rather 
like ve very best in all the world, I ’d — I ’d — 0, I ’d go to 
Boston, — in ve first train, and choose my ovm dinner, and 
just as many pink ice-creams as i could get down!” 

His mother was “ in for it ” that time. There was no mistake 
about it ; nothing to do about it. She was in honor bound. 

If Trotty lives through it, I will let you know some other 
time. 












I 



% • 


.»K 







t 

ft 



t ' 



1 


I 


/ 


0 


Iv-V'. ;:•{ ’ p!n;h;vi;,; .iv; 

'. -'•^■■•••, :;■' . j-, ^-■- 

'■ -! j' 1 j‘',j'. , .■"■ '"'V ■' < -‘v,!,' •' ' '•‘•^..'’’v^. ,. 

';■■ c-y-yi‘‘^\ -v-'-ivJ'i'Pr ;v''-jv v 


;.':1 

r. ;■’ » . :f. ' ' -i' '■; •,• >‘ ; '•.'•.•5>‘,' .*VV. , •• •;' 

j'' J.M, ! v<'! ,V. ■ ^’’vi^;■iVrVJrV 

/■• ' : ■ (’ •' ■J,?. -.'■'-‘I'.’.*" >1 '• v»-}.V‘-'i'' ' 

■/. ;-,vi : ^:::r!r;-r 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


0 □ 0 a s t. 4 a s T Ed 




..V;---’.;- j-;-'. ■ ■'■;-■».' ^i-;' -ly.'. ' y 'j- ' 'V, ' /-'v' 

M; y. : oly :,:.y .' : -‘':;',; 1 : 

;:i’ ^ ;;■ ; *■ -Hi; '-iy* 

.:v : '•> •; ' 

i 'i Ik: 

y- y- ■ : v / -V,, i;V’, " : ■ ; /:■';;*■■■ 

-yiyhyry -yHy-yyy 

• . -^1 V. ■ ■ .J • )«f ' 'h . > • ' '1 ••••.■..■ 3 • 


' '■ .i.’.'. v'-. •i’k' ■■•■••. •''•■• ■ . MMI', ‘ ■ 

, ' • . t'y. Ji' ■ V . > • ' '1 ‘ ; . i • - , 

••■ ’ - '• ' '■-■ v. , '•••■.• 'v /'. '••"•*>■. '•'•'f.' '•. ' '.■■'■ 'i '- • ' . 

y<:yry,y:y.'’f y.f-.y. y.y.>-y ''r"' - ;.:;:ri- 

' ■ ,.■ ■: ■■ • ’• >.t.r • ‘ . y >",!;■■’■ '•’ ^n' 



.' >] . ,' 

' > • y .•% 

’ j , 

' .' ■ ’• ’ 1 ' 

* * ’ • J / 


■...•■liJ r 

'■ I'.- '.I- 



. '.. .• . -'ll 

'* 'L*'* 


■ ‘ . ^ * * . ' ^ , ‘ 


r , ' , ' ; i ! 


y ' 




■!■";■ ' '.y 


\ y y ,> 


' ‘.;'v 


► •' .•’>' ' 


,!. 



•; ,' •)'_/ 


1 .. , ',> 



■■ ■ 1 '.J J ! ■‘.- ..j/'J 

. » 1 : 1 <• • 

•• 1*''* 




'r ' '. •’■ 

• ■ ’'.' / , 


■'■■ ’■• -E-J 
: V']y 


i. - 

■ ' ’ ' ', f . 


i' ',’ 

y.'y 

, i ' 

j ■ . 

• > 


1 . ,. , 

. ./■ ' 



' / J * 

* r ■ . ; 


■ -.i: 


■ , V'.r-'' 


'j ii- 


! i ■ ! ' ',' m; f •■;> * ‘ . '.'i* ■ ' ■ , , , • •■ .‘ '• •• • 

•' ’! -C '■ I 'M-j- •'.' ''■'•'■•1' j‘ ’ V •■’ •■' . .'• '/•'l'’ 

; r-' ^ ^ !■ 

• .-■' *■ ■ ■■■ ■'; 'r r ' ^ '‘ ■ i."'-: ■■ ' • 'i ’■'- - 



f . 1 . . • . t 

. • yj/'-, ; 


’ ’ ■ ' 1 ' ' ■' > 1 

. . . • •* f 

'E ‘ . ,'■-!> ''j. 

.‘ ' '■.>■ 


. . 1 , «'l t 

•* v’'' 

.■• ' 

■ 

' , ’ , 1 1 . 

'A ■'■ ' 



• i’'‘ ' 

r • 1 • . ' * 

' 1 ) - 1 , ; • . 

!'! ■ ’ 

1 • 

'•! V’ '• ' 

. ■ r ■ • ' » 

-x- 

; ’ 1 ' 

. ' 1 ' 

••. • ■'• 1 ' 

• _<■. , 

•*' ’ ir’ . ’■ 

f . ' 


> ' ' * 1 


y ' p 
■ ' ‘ ' i' 

' .'i • ’ 

[.yyyy 


i'\yy \ E 

'■ V ' ' 

. » * * *. * 


‘ i- • ‘ i 

► r ^ 1 » ' ^ 

.'ll • » 

'* 1 j ,i 

' y *»-.•/** 1 * 


* • K ; ; J 

t * . y 


i 'v 


» . ^ * 

i ' .• ' 

' 1 ; • , ' y y 

‘ 1 ' ^ ‘ 

! ’ J 

1 • •, 

, . 1 1 • 

' -I- E'j j‘.. 



* ■.•*'■ ' • *'■•' - : -■' ! / ■■ ,f'*'.' ’’ 

. •,' • / '.• f. ^ ’■ r-1 ’ .I t. •' '■: ■ 


